Loyalties
by volley
Summary: The Enterprise crew must face mystery, politics and intrigue, in an adventure where no one seemes to be able to trust the next person.
1. Chapter 1

This is a long story, but is complete and will be posted regularly every two or three days.

It is set quite early in our saga, when T'Pol is still perceived as "the Vulcan on board".

Grateful thanks to my wonderful beta readers, Gabi 2305 and RoaringMice, who really help me get things right!

§ 1 §

There were words, blossoming like fireworks in the darkness of his mind, lighting for a mere instant before withering into nothingness. He couldn't hold them long enough to piece them together, to have them make any sense. They were _tense_ voices, though, which didn't bode well. Especially because he was... oh hell, he was going to...

"Turn him on his side, quickly!"

By the time he was finished there was nothing left in him, not even a groan. Capable hands took care of his drained body and he listlessly accepted it, unable to help, or even oppose them; or to stop his mind from drifting away and peeking over the edge, into the… deep… peaceful… so… bloody… nice… vo…

"Malcolm!"

"Not now, Commander."

"I've got to find out... wouldn't ask if..."

"Surely you can see... won't be able..."

"Doc, please!"

Something cold was pressed to his neck. The beckoning darkness withdrew a little, though it held still at some distance, ready to pounce.

"Malcolm!"

A hand closed around his arm, its grip gentle – as if afraid to hurt him – yet firm. Cracking unfocussed eyes open, he blinked, taking in the shape that was there. At least he knew to whom it belonged. His throat burned from the retching, and when he made to speak only an unintelligible sound came out, which led to a bout of coughing. That felt as if he had swallowed a handful of needles.

"What happened? Malcolm, can you hear me?"

Strange how some things were covered in fog while others registered very clearly in his mind: the soft but steady beep of his pulse on the monitors, for example, reassuring him that his heart was doing a proper job of keeping him alive. Perhaps this would not be his time.

But what was it that Trip had asked him?

Restraints closed around him, and disorientation swept him off again. Where was he? A prisoner? The beeping picked up speed.

"I need to get him into the imaging chamber, Commander. Stand aside."

_Ah._

"Tr… Trip?"

"What happened? Malcolm, stay with me!"

What had happened? That's what he wanted to know too.

"The Capt'n, where is he?"

Another gentle squeeze around his arm prompted a reply he could not formulate. Bits and pieces. There were only bits and pieces. And the Captain... A sudden flashback made his muscles clench, and the beeps went wild with the abrupt realisation that the Captain might well be in _bits and pieces_ himself.

"Commander, let me--"

"Something went off," Malcolm breathed out, his voice – what little had managed to come out - sounding panicky.

"What? What did you say? Malcolm!"

"Commander, step aside or I will have to order you out of sickbay."

Phlox. He sounded angry – definitely not good. The hand reluctantly let go of him, and Malcolm was sorry about it. Because with a soft buzz the bed began to move him into the solitary confines where, alone with his conscience, he would probably have enough time to retrieve some pretty damnable memories.

* * *

"Tucker to T'Pol."

Trip stood rigidly by the comm. link, unwilling to leave Sickbay. He was damned worried and wanted to wait for Phlox's diagnosis. He also still hoped that through some miracle, when the biobed slid out of the imaging chamber, Malcolm would be himself again, and he could get some answers.

"Go ahead," the Vulcan's monotone voice replied.

"Any news?"

"No."

"What do you mean, _no_?" Trip snapped, frustration getting the better of him. Let the woman waste a few more words, for heaven's sake! Vulcan poise and understatement right now were a pain in the--

"I have made no progress in locating the Captain," T'Pol expounded, adding right after, "How is Lieutenant Reed? Were you able to speak to him?"

Trip shot a concerned look towards the imaging chamber. "Not really. He's barely conscious. I think he muttered that somethin' went off, but I'm not sure I caught it right. He's bein' scanned right now." Blowing out a slow breath to ease some of his tension, he enquired, "Have you sensor-swept the place?"

"Yes. I cannot find the Captain's biosigns."

Trip scrunched his eyes shut. "How is that possible? A transport?" he wondered, the idea not making him feel any better.

"A possibility. If he was transported out we should find a signature," T'Pol came back. "Another possibility is that sensors readings may not be entirely reliable. I will keep you informed of our progress, Commander. T'Pol out."

Trip closed the link and fell back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. When he lifted his eyes he noticed that the picture of a body – Malcolm's body – had appeared on the screen over the imaging chamber. Phlox was studying it, one hand cradling his chin. Trip's shoulder-blades sprouted springs, and he found himself propelled towards the physician.

"Doc?" he prompted softly, forcing the word out as he stopped a distance away, suddenly wary. Malcolm had not looked great. The bandage Phlox had hurriedly slipped under his head as soon as the man had been transferred from the transporter pad to a stretcher had become soaked in blood in no time. Not long afterwards, the Lieutenant had been sick and virtually passed out.

The Denobulan shot a quick glance over one shoulder. "No internal injuries, fortunately," he said. "A few bruises. No fracture of the skull either, but he suffered a severe concussion. I will need to keep him under close observation for at least twenty-four hours. Transporting him back, though unavoidable, certainly wasn't the best thing for him."

Trip let out the breath he'd been holding. Malcolm's head was harder than duranium: despite Phlox's qualms he felt sure the man would be okay. The Captain, though...

Phlox called up an image of Malcolm's brain. As he studied it he commented, "Everything leads to think that the Lieutenant suffered blunt force trauma."

"Doc, don't get mad," Trip said tautly, finally confident enough to close the gap between them, "but I really need Malcolm to tell me what the hell happened on that planet; you heard what T'Pol said about the Capt'n."

The Denobulan dragged his eyes away from Malcolm's scans. "Commander, I'm aware of the situation, and I'll do whatever I can to help, rest assured."

There was the empathy they had all come to appreciate in their CMO. "Thanks," Trip began gratefully.

"Except endanger my patient," Phlox went on, very seriously. "Mister Reed needs rest; therefore I will let you speak to him only briefly."

"Understood."

Phlox uploaded the imaging chamber's scans to his desk computer; then pressed a button and the bed with Malcolm strapped to it slid out. The man blinked a few times. He definitely looked more with it than before. When the restraints were undone, though, he made no move to sit up, which, more than any scientific explanation gave Trip the measure of how serious his concussion must be.

"Are you with us, Lieutenant?" the Doctor enquired, flashing a quick light into his patient's eyes. Even Trip could see that Malcolm's pupils were quite dilated.

"Somewhat," was the mumbled reply.

"You tried your best once again to crack your skull, Mister Reed, albeit unsuccessfully," Phlox informed him as he gently turned Malcolm's head to one side. The action elicited a hiss of pain, but the Doctor proceeded nonetheless to take away the compress, which had once again become bloodied. "You also tried to break a few bones, again to no avail."

With practised movements, while speaking softly to distract his wincing patient, Phlox went on to clean and suture the wound, and apply a new dressing.

"You'll have to be monitored for a while," he finally said to Malcolm, who looked like he hadn't followed much of the one-way conversation. "Commander Tucker here needs to speak to you; right after I'll take care of your bruises and make you more comfortable." Turning to Trip, he added meaningfully, "Remember, Commander, keep it short." Then he moved to his desk computer, leaving them alone.

All too aware of his friend's drawn features, Trip reached and gently squeezed Malcolm's shoulder. "We can't find any trace of the Capt'n," he told him, skipping the civilities. "Can you remember what happened?"

Malcolm turned warily. The grey eyes locked with Trip's for a long moment, disturbingly distant, painfully worried; then drifted closed. "More or less," he breathed out.

§ _On the planet, one hour before_ §

Scanner held in front of him, Archer moved it in a circular motion around them. Malcolm spared the man a glance before turning his attention fully to their surroundings. In his own hand was something just as important and useful, if not more: a phase pistol.

"I'm not reading any biosigns," Archer said, confirming what T'Pol had told them on Enterprise.

The words weren't necessarily reassuring, as far as Malcolm was concerned: the planet's particular atmosphere made readings of any kind imprecise, therefore unreliable.

"That doesn't automatically mean we're alone," Malcolm reminded his C.O. A bit of extra caution was always good to have. He swept the place visually, taking in the inhospitable landscape with its bare, reddish rocks. The place was so barren that it made him long for rainy England. Most of the rocks were large enough to hide nasty surprises. For a brief moment he let his gaze stray further into the distance; beyond a large stretch of plain, dusty land, some vegetation seemed to grow, perhaps a sort of oasis.

The air was hot and dusty, and not very rich in oxygen. Malcolm coughed, controlling the urge to cover his nose and mouth with an arm. "Perhaps we should have suited up," he croaked out hoarsely. Archer shot him a smile – of all things.

"It's only a little dust, Malcolm, and I'm not planning on pitching any tents," he quipped, before giving in to a small fit of coughing himself. "There," he said when he had recovered, pointing to the right with one outstretched arm. "That must be it."

The object was difficult to spot, actually, for it was covered in red dust like the rest of their surroundings. Even though its smoother and pointier shape set it apart from the rocks, Malcolm had to look hard to see it. Archer – his wounded pride argued – had had the advantage of a scanner.

It was a small obelisk. Or what looked like an obelisk. From where they were, it didn't appear to stand much taller than the Captain, and it was right on the last line of boulders, before the plain stretch of land. Malcolm couldn't see any inscriptions on it, though there might well be some under the layer of dust.

"That's definitely it," Archer murmured, starting slowly towards the thing, eyes on his scanner. "It's giving out the signal Hoshi was unable to decipher."

"Sir," Malcolm cautioned, falling in step with him, "I wouldn't get too close. We're not even sure it's a distress signal. In fact, seeing as there is nobody around, it seems unlikely it is."

"We're here to find out, Malcolm," Archer replied unperturbed.

Malcolm could see that the man was already committed to this new adventure. Archer had the true spirit of an explorer. Unfortunately he lacked that healthy dose of restraint which granted explorers – maybe – the chance to reach an old age. He – Malcolm – had tried to guide him to that way of thinking, but so far it had been a lost cause. Damn, but he could really do without poking their noses into any weird thing they came across.

However, he still had a last card to play.

"With all due respect, Captain, unless we're sure it's a distress signal, we shouldn't waste any time on it. The Admiral–"

"Objection noted, Lieutenant," Archer cut him off. He turned and pierced him with those stubborn green eyes Malcolm knew all too well. "Why don't you take a look around, while I scan the object?"

Malcolm clenched his jaw, biting back another objection. He held his C.O.'s gaze for as long as he dared; then caved in to the unyielding expression. He knew from experience when it was futile to insist. "Aye, Sir," he dutifully replied.

It was perhaps a couple of minutes later that the high-pitched sound started. Malcolm, some ten metres off to the left, turned abruptly. Archer was frozen beside the obelisk, scanner still in hand.

"Captain," Malcolm called out to him in urgent tones, "I don't like this, Sir. Get away." The man turned to shoot him a glance, for once showing full agreement. He took a step, and that's when…

* * *

"That's when something went off," Malcolm said. "A… a displacement field of some sort."

A small vein was throbbing on his temple and his voice was fading, and Trip felt sorry for having to put him through this.

"That's the last..." Malcolm deflated, his chest caving in. "I'm sorry," he said in a whisper. "There's nothing else I…" The rest died on his lips.

"Okay." Trip squeezed his friend's shoulder again, in silent comfort. "Get some rest," he told him, striving to keep the despair he was beginning to feel out of his voice.

As he was already moving away, Malcolm's hand grazed his arm, and the man's eyes, which had remained closed throughout his report, cracked open. Dilated pupils couldn't hide the trouble in them.

"Keep me posted."

"Will do."

When Trip turned to go, Phlox was there, a mirthless half smile on his lips. "Thank you, Commander," he said, tilting his head in a silent good-bye.

"He's all yours, Doc," Trip croacked out. "Take good care of him."

_We don't want to lose any more people_, he wanted to add; but his tongue stuck to his palate, for the words would imply something he didn't want to take into consideration. Not yet. Wasn't he the ship's resident optimist?

"Of course," Phlox replied, already moving towards his patient.

TBC

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	2. Chapter 2

* * *

Thank you for your reviews.

§ 2 §

"A displacement field would have hit Captain Archer as well," T'Pol reasoned from Archer's chair in his ready room. "It would have cast him to the ground like Lieutenant Reed. But instruments did register a burst of energy of some sort."

Trip pursed his lips. He was standing in front of the desk, too up-tight to sit down. "Malcolm seemed pretty disoriented. We can't be sure that…" Taking his eyes off the Vulcan, he refocused on the deck-plating, hands going to his hips. "Nah, if he says it was a displacement field, we've got to believe him."

"I agree."

"I think it's time we went down to that planet again," Trip said firmly. Shifting his gaze back to T'Pol, he studied her closely for any signs of dissent, but of course no hint of emotion crossed her face. A worrisome doubt had been snaking its way into Trip's mind. "We're gettin' nowhere with sensor readings," he went on, voicing it. "How can we be sure that the Capt'n isn't actually there, injured, unconscious? Maybe it's just that we can't pick up his biosigns."

"It's an illogical assumption, Commander: despite the planet's atmosphere, we could read both the Captain's and the Lieutenant's biosigns fairly clearly, before the incident. And even afterwards the Lieutenant's were still there; indeed we had no problems transporting him out."

"Well, I say we go down and make sure, take a look around," Trip insisted, beginning to fear that their SIC's rational approach would get in the way of a proper rescue. Vulcans were always so fond of doing things from on board, of using ship's instruments rather than their senses. No wonder – he thought with an inward smirk – they tried their best to _forget_ about their senses.

"An emotional response to the situation, while being typical of your species, might result in endangering more lives."

That she shouldn't have said. Especially not with that snotty Vulcan air. Trip felt his facial muscles clench. "You and your logic are the ones who might endanger a life, the Capt'n's life," he retorted in cold fury.

"Commander," T'Pol said, with a composed lift of her eyebrows. "I suggest–"

The comm. link cut her off, and for a moment they seemed frozen in time. Then T'Pol reached over the desk to open the channel.

"Go ahead."

"Subcommander," Hoshi's wary voice came back, "Admiral Blake demands to see the Captain."

The choice of verb was not lost on either of them. Trip silently cursed. That's all they needed. He had almost forgotten about the Admiral.

"Where is he, Ensign?"

"Right here on the Bridge, Ma'am."

Trip watched T'Pol's mouth twitch ever so slightly. "Tell him that he may come in," she said.

Hardly had she cut the communication off than the door swished open and an imposing figure stepped in.

T'Pol stood. "Admiral," she greeted.

"Subcommander, where is the Captain?" the tall, strong-featured man asked, with just a hint of surprise. His tone was polite but firm, the tone of someone who was used to giving orders. "I was hoping he would keep me informed: this unexpected _detour_ has already delayed us enough."

He finally cast a glance in Trip's direction, and exchanged a nod with him.

"There has been an unforeseen development, Admiral," T'Pol said, latching her hands behind her back. "Captain Archer went down to the planet to investigate that signal and has…" She lifted her eyebrows, hesitating for a fraction of a second before concluding, "Disappeared."

A beat of silence later, the Admiral's very dark eyes, eyes which Trip could swear could never waver, narrowed. "How?" he enquired bluntly.

"According to Lieutenant Reed, our Security Officer who was on the planet with the Captain, there was a displacement field."

"And your Security Officer hasn't… _disappeared_?"

There was just enough innuendo in the words to make Trip's blood boil.

"Lieutenant Reed is in sickbay with a severe concussion, Admiral," he said, striving to keep a proper tone. "I can assure you he would have taken all the proper precautions to keep the Captain safe. The displacement field was sudden and unforeseeable, and hit them both with great force. The Captain, apparently, was closer, and since then our instruments haven't been able to pick up his biosigns."

The dark eyes bore into him, probably to gauge how much hostility hid behind his plainly-spoken words. Another, longer silence ensued. The Admiral passed a hand through his greying hair; then went to the porthole and looked down at the reddish planet below.

"Have you at least determined if the signal is indeed a distress call?" he enquired.

This was treacherous ground, for the nature of the signal they had picked up would make a subtle difference; if answering a distress call, in fact, was a duty that took precedence over other missions – no matter how urgent – investigating another type of signal was another matter altogether. Trip shot T'Pol a glance, but either she didn't see the warning in it, or didn't want to acknowledge it.

"Not yet, but at this point it seems unlikely," she candidly revealed, making Trip curse inwardly again.

Blake made an abrupt turn-about. "Then this detour might have been unnecessary. You do realise what that means, Subcommander."

For once Trip blessed the Vulcan's self-confidence and logical approach, as T'Pol replied, "Whether or not it was unnecessary still remains to be verified." To his relief, she went on to add, "As does, now, what has befallen Captain Archer."

The Admiral's only reaction to her firm words was a clenching of the jaw. Trip felt at a veritable disadvantage, being in the same room with not one but two impassive individuals. His own innards were in knots and he had little doubt that the effort he was putting into keeping his feelings under control showed in everything he did.

"A crew's loyalty to their Captain is a commendable sentiment," Blake commented. "I must remind you, however, that the Enterprise has been ordered to take Ambassador V'Sir and me to our destination without delay. You have twenty-four hours to try and find out what that signal is all about, and what happened to Captain Archer. Then we shall break orbit."

"Admiral," Trip burst out, his legs taking him a step closer to the man. "Twenty-four hours aren't much time. We're facin' two difficult problems here. Surely you must see that."

Blake calmly turned his head to him. "Starfleet never promised you an easy life, Commander. Deep space exploration involves taking risks and making difficult decisions. I believe you were well aware of that, when you decided to wear that uniform. I also believe you swore to obey your superior officers' orders." Turning back to T'Pol, he repeated, "Twenty-four hours, Subcommander." With that he left.

"T'Pol, you can't allow that!" Trip burst out as soon as the doors had swished closed.

"What course of action would you suggest, Commander?" the Vulcan asked. "I will not endorse a mutiny."

Trip bit his lip. She had a point, unfortunately. "At least let me transport down to the planet with a team," Trip urged. "We can't afford to use only the ship's damned sensors now."

T'Pol looked at him for a long moment. "Granted," she finally said, adding, as Trip was already crossing the threshold, "Do exercise caution, Commander. I do not wish to lose any more crew."

* * *

All he could see was a pair of eyes. Eyes he would recognise out of a million. They were fixing him unwaveringly. Narrow green eyes fixing him not unlike that day when he had stepped into a San Francisco Starfleet office, for the job interview that had changed his life. That time he had felt them penetrate his famous impenetrable exterior, seek out his well-protected core. They were doing this again, reaching into him. Or were they reaching out to him?

Malcolm's own eyes flew open and he gasped. He could feel his heart throb at the base of his neck.

"Easy, Lieutenant."

More than Phlox's soothing voice, it was his hands on his shoulders, anchoring him to the present, which did the trick. Malcolm relaxed into the pillow but fought the desire to close his eyes again, lest the image came back to haunt him. It was still too fresh in his mind.

"Sorry, bad dream," he muttered.

"Yes," the Doctor absent-mindedly replied. All his attention was on the monitor at the head of the bed, and on its readings. "Any headache?" he enquired once he was done, seeking Malcolm's gaze.

"No," Malcolm lied, shifting his away. He didn't want to be sedated. It was only a mild one, anyway; he was feeling better. He ought to be out of sickbay and helping out, whatever their current situation was. Phlox's silence forced him to look back. The Doctor had a 'who-do-you-think-you're-fooling' expression on his face.

"Very well, then," Phlox said, though, unperturbedly. "You do realise that – headache or not – you're staying right here, do you not, Mister Reed?"

Malcolm bit his lip. His pride would not allow him to admit to his lie, so he went on to enquire, "Any news of the Captain?"

"He's still missing." In a tranquil tone, Phlox added, "But I don't know the details. No doubt Commander Tucker will inform us of any significant progress."

_Or lack thereof_, Malcolm more pessimistically added in the secret of his battered mind. That soundless explosion, down on the planet, whatever its nature, had been quite powerful, and the Captain had taken the brunt of it. Damned the stubborn man – he cursed inwardly. He had warned him against going too close to that thing!

He realised he was wincing when it was too late.

"Lying to your Doctor, Lieutenant, is not a very wise thing to do," Phlox mildly scolded, producing a hypospray and putting it to Malcolm's neck. With a hiss, its contents were released into his bloodstream.

Almost instantly the band around Malcolm's head loosened. "Right," Malcolm mumbled self-consciously.

Despite his wish to return to duty, he felt drained and tired. His eyelids were heavy again. "How long have I slept?" he asked, partly to divert attention from the blush creeping up his neck.

"A couple of hours. And with what I just gave you, you ought to put at least another couple under your belt, so to speak," Phlox replied in open satisfaction.

And so it was that Malcolm inexorably slipped under once more. So long as he had better dreams than before…

TBC

Looking forward to your thoughts.


	3. Chapter 3

It's always very gratifying to read your comments. Thank you to all my reviewers!

§ 3 §

T'Pol watched the sensor readings scroll on her screen. This was the third time she was scanning the planet, something that went against all reason. But while she waited for the ship's geologists to give her an analysis of the dust they had collected from Lieutenant Reed's uniform, she supposed she could try one more time, in case Archer's biosigns, much like their owner, didn't follow logic and had unexpectedly reappeared. They hadn't, she saw. The reasonable conclusion was that the Captain was either somewhere down there but sensors could not read him, or no longer on the planet. Of course there was also a third possibility, that he might have been disintegrated by whatever force had thrown Lieutenant Reed to the ground; but she chose to disregard it, for the time being.

From what the sensors told her, there was no life on the planet, aside from micro-organisms and Commander Tucker's team. There was, on the other hand, an artefact that kept giving out an automated signal, and which, according to Lieutenant Reed, had given out a high-pitched sound just before the displacement field had hit them.

T'Pol lifted her eyes from her instruments and turned to Sato. The young linguist sat with her eyes closed and both hands over her ears, compellingly focussed on the work at hand.

"Ensign," T'Pol said, loud enough to break her concentration. The almond eyes opened. "Have you made any progress in deciphering the automated signal?"

Sato reached a control button on her panel, her mouth twitching unhappily. "This is like no language I've ever come across. It's the strangest thing: I'm not even entirely sure whether the same message is repeating or not," she said in frustration. "I think there are changes in the sounds, but they are so subtle that unless you're totally focussed it's easy to miss them. And, irrelevant change after irrelevant change, soon I'm going to end up with a message that is no longer what it was when I first started listening to it." Another smirk of displeasure crossed her features. "There definitely are repeating patterns. At least I think so..." The linguist bit her lower lip. "I'm sorry, Subcommander."

"You do not need to apologise, Ensign," T'Pol commented. Humans, in her experience, tended to spend too much energy 'feeling sorry', either for themselves or other people. "Feeling sorry will not help you," she added. She had meant it as a useful suggestion but, to her surprise, Sato's face turned almost resentful.

"I cannot help it," she said tersely. "Captain Archer's life might hang on my ability to decipher that signal."

Before T'Pol could say anything to that, a light on Sato's console started flashing.

"Commander Tucker is hailing from the planet's surface," the Linguist said. Without delay she established a link.

"Report, Commander," T'Pol ordered.

"T'Pol, there's nothin' here, other than that weird obelisk and dust."

Trip's voice was dispirited.

"Proceed to take samples of the ground, for traces of DNA."

T'Pol noticed her fellow crewmen react to the words. Ensign Mayweather turned abruptly to her, worry clear in his eyes. Sato lowered her gaze and frowned slightly. Across the bridge, Ensign Müller, Reed's Second, stopped what he was doing and shot her a look. Commander Tucker's silence was also quite telling.

The intensity of the Bridge crew's emotions crashed against her like a tidal wave.

"Alright," the Engineer answered grimly after a beat. "I'll have a few small containers ready to be beamed up in a moment."

Müller was out of his chair almost before T'Pol could raise a finger to indicate he should proceed to the transporter room.

"And after, I'm gonna see if I can scan that thing," Tucker's voice continued.

"Understood."

From Enterprise they had not been able to penetrate the obelisk, and it would indeed be useful to collect some information on the reason for their present predicament. The Commander, however, was an impetuous individual, and T'Pol found herself warning, with enough urgency to carry through the comm. link, "Do keep at a safe distance at all times, Commander."

"Care to tell me just what a _safe distance _might be?"

T'Pol had to admit that the objection was quite valid. "Indeed I have no parameters for determining it, but–"

"Are you sayin' I oughtta use my gut feelin'?"

"Merely that you should exercise caution," T'Pol said, ignoring the sarcastic tone. "We know the Captain triggered that displacement field when he was right beside the obelisk."

"Yeah, well, don't worry," the disembodied voice came back. "I don't wanna end up knocked on my butt. Or worse. Tucker out."

T'Pol heaved a deep, steadying, breath. Worry was not something she would experience, but for some reason her stomach muscles had contracted.

* * *

Forty minutes on the planet had been more time that he would ever care to spend on such a God-forsaken place. Trip closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the wall of the decon chamber. He and the two security men who had accompanied him had been sitting there in silence for the past few minutes.

Hell, he could feel that red dust even up his nose. And though breathable, the air on the surface was not rich in oxygen, which had made it a tiring away mission. It had also been a rather fruitless trip.

"You're free to go," Phlox's voice finally said. "No unwanted surprises."

Trip's eyes flashed open and he pushed to his feet. He needed to report to T'Pol, and craved for a long shower that would restore him to his original colour of skin; but since he was near sickbay he might as well see how Malcolm was. Maybe he had remembered something else in the meantime.

The moment he crossed the threshold, the man in question started pushing up in bed to a straighter position, grey eyes boring into him.

Trip jerked his head towards the occupied biobed. "Do you mind, Doc?"

Phlox heaved a resigned breath. "Go ahead."

"Any news?" Malcolm asked while Trip was still approaching.

He looked a lot better than when Trip had last seen him, though his eyes were darkly rimmed and a large bandage covered part of the back of his head, while a bruise had appeared on his temple.

"Not really," Trip admitted. "We scanned the surface and got samples of the ground." The expression that fleeted across Malcolm's face confirmed that he didn't need to explain why. "No news, good news," he added, digging deep to find a bit of his famous optimism.

Malcolm pursed his lips. "I'd prefer _some_ news, if only because we might be ordered to take the ship lightyears away from here."

"So you've heard about that," Trip commented despondently. He watched something dark flit across the other man's eyes.

"Actually, no. I was hoping it was just my pessimism speaking." Malcolm licked his lips. "How long have we got?"

"Must be down to twenty hours, by now."

"What? That's ridiculously little time," Malcolm exclaimed in outrage. His eyes roamed over Trip. "What have you found on the planet?"

Trip snorted in bitter sarcasm. "What does it look like?" He raked a hand through his hair. "Dust. There's nothing else there. I tried to get some readings off that damn obelisk but it's no use: our scanners can't penetrate it, whatever it is. All I can tell is that it's made of some kind of metal. And it doesn't look like a type of ore that is found on the planet."

"If that artefact isn't from the planet then its signal might very well _be_ a distress call," Malcolm reasoned, more animatedly. He warily eyed Phlox, who had shot a look in their direction, and continued, in a lower voice, "If we can prove it's a distress call, Enterprise will be allowed to stay in orbit. It will buy us time."

"I'm sure Hoshi's givin' it all she has. But that signal might be anythin'," Trip countered. "And from what happened to you and the Capt'n, I'd say that thing is more like a defense mechanism."

Malcolm frowned. "I've got to get out of here," he muttered resolutely, already moving.

"Easy, Malcolm." Trip caught his wrist as he was about to throw his sheet back. "Not too long ago you were virtually incoherent."

"Well, now I'm fine," Malcolm insisted. "We have precious little time and you need my help," he added, almost confrontationally.

Malcolm's stubbornness was well-known, as was his loyalty to the Captain and crew. But Trip knew there was something else making the man so eager to get into action.

"It wasn't your fault," he said quietly. Malcolm broke free from his grip and averted his gaze.

Before either of them could speak, Phlox was there.

"Is there a problem?" he asked.

Malcolm turned abruptly and zoned in on him. "Yes, there is a problem," he said in that low voice of his, where vocal chords hardly seemed to vibrate. "The Captain cannot be found, and we have twenty hours to discover what has happened to him, before the ship will be ordered to break orbit." Under Phlox's disapproving gaze, he threw his sheet back and his legs over the edge of the bed. "As I am sure you understand, Doctor, under the circumstances I cannot waste any more time in sickbay."

Phlox cast a quick glance at Trip, who raised his hands in a defensive gesture. "Don't look at me like that, Doc: I didn't do anythin', I swear."

A second later a medical scanner was buzzing over Malcolm. Phlox checked the readings in silence. Finally he spoke. "In light of the current emergency, I will let you return to _light_ duty," he said, stressing the adjective. "Remember, Mister Reed: nothing physical, and nothing strenuous, of any sort. I expect you to take frequent breaks, and to come to sickbay immediately should you experience any symptoms, especially disorientation, nausea, or headache."

"Understood. Thank you, Doctor." Malcolm gingerly let himself slip off the biobed, readily stretching his neck to receive whatever shot Phlox had ready for him.

His movements were a bit too cautious for someone who claimed to be _fine_, but Trip remembered that Phlox had mentioned bruises; indeed the man was lucky to be still in one piece, from what Trip had seen of the sensors' recording of that explosion. And deep in his heart he was glad that they could count on one more bright mind to help them unravel the mystery. For he would consider this a mystery until he could still hold a thread of hope; he would refuse to acknowledge the fear that Archer, his friend and Captain, might be gone forever.

"I'll take a quick shower and then I'll be on the Bridge," Trip told Malcolm as they walked along the corridor. The man had been in silence since they had left Sickby. Trip turned to look at him. "Will you be ok?" he asked, noticing his corrugated expression.

"Have we got a recording of the incident?" Malcolm enquired in turn, oblivious to Trip's words.

"Yeah, though not a visual one. And that dust partially blocks readings, so don't expect high definition."

"I'll be in the Armoury, checking it out," Malcolm said.

They separated without further words, each following his heavy train of thoughts.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

For those of you who are wondering about Archer... you'll have to be very patient!

§ 4 §

It was not a perfect recording, but it was good enough. There were the two of them. Malcolm followed two blips on his screen, one closer to the dot that connoted that automated signal, the other, himself, much further away. He saw, now, that while he had been busy checking the area, the Captain had lingered in front of the obelisk for two minutes and… – numbers flickered by – twelve seconds, before starting to walk around it. It was then that the high-pitched sound had begun. A few seconds later, the explosion.

Malcolm watched himself – his blip – be thrown what he now gauged to be three and a half metres back, and winced, aware of every sore bump in his body that had resulted from that wingless flight. He had hit one of those boulders with the back of his head, and no wonder he'd been knocked virtually unconscious. It was a miracle he hadn't broken any bones. But the Captain? He replayed the last ten seconds at slow speed, eyes fixed on the other blip. There was Archer, in front of the obelisk... he had moved to circle around it and... Bang. The blip was no longer there.

Malcolm stopped the recording, suddenly overcome by a numb dread. Could Archer really have been vaporised like that, in the blinking of an eye, by whatever force had hit them? That displacement field, after all, according to ship's instruments had been energy of some sort, and Archer seemed to have been virtually at the point of origin. His mind rebelled at the idea. No, they would have found some DNA, some trace of the man. Until he had that evidence in front of his eyes with the official imprimatur of the science lab on it, he would think positively; he would force himself to believe that 'no news was good news', as Trip had suggested.

But Trip… Trip had also suggested something else, that the artefact seemed more like a defence system than anything else. Malcolm was inclined to agree. But then why was it giving out that automated signal? It didn't make sense – or it did in a wicked way: to attract people only to blow them to invisible smithereens? Unless… it was possible that the message that thing transmitted was warning people 'to see and not to touch', so to speak; but then again, if it was, why send it out on a frequency that spaceships would pick up from light years away, thus tempting them to come and take a look around?

Damn it! With the whole big universe available to him, why did Archer always want to investigate any little thing they came across? Being explorers didn't mean they had to take unnecessary risks. Besides, when they had picked up that signal they already _had_ been on a mission, they had the Admiral and Ambassador to take to their destination; they shouldn't have made this detour. Unfortunately, as his conscience dutifully nagged him, they had been compelled to investigate what had sounded like a distress call; Startfleet regulations.

Malcolm turned his head abruptly, to drag his eyes away from those infuriating blips, and a sudden bout of nausea made him dizzy. Arms groping about for support, he found his console and leaned with both outstretched hands on it, letting his head fall forward and closing his eyes against the spinning room. If truth be told, he wasn't fine at all. Should he go to sickbay? Perhaps it would be enough to take one of those breaks the Doctor had…

They flashed open in his mind like lights that had been suddenly switched on, making his heart skip a beat. They captured and held him, almost physically weighing down on him like a sparring partner in an immobilising grip. _Look at me_ – the green eyes seemed to say – _don't stray_. And how the hell could he? The look in them was so intense that Malcolm wouldn't be able to break free even if he wanted to. Energy began to drain out of him. Whether because of his Captain's eyes or of his own injuries he didn't know, but a deep weariness set in, making him break into a cold sweat; his legs threatened to betray him and his breathing got shallow.

"Lieutenant, are you all right?"

And they were gone.

Released from his vision by the nearby voice, Malcolm found the willpower to open his eyes and raise his head.

"Sir?"

A hand came to steady him as he swayed slightly. Brilliant. Why not faint altogether, and give Phlox reason to lock him up in sickbay for a week?

"I'm all right," he mumbled, turning to Crewman Wang. He took a deep, steadying breath. "I experienced a dizzy spell, but it has passed." Not entirely true but close enough.

The woman's dark gaze showed hesitancy. "With all due respect, Sir, you don't look very well," she dared. "Shall I walk you to sickbay?"

_Definitely not_. Malcolm straightened his shoulders, knowing, from the way he felt, that he could not bluff beyond reason; better use a different tactic.

"Thank you, Crewman, but I just came from the place," he said, forcing a faint smile on his lips. "The Doctor said I should take frequent breaks, and it looks like he was right. If anyone needs me, I'll be in my quarters."

Grabbing the padd. on which he had downloaded the recording, he gave a small, careful nod; then willed his legs to do their job and made a strategic retreat.

As he limped along the corridor – for his abused lower back had started to complain – Malcolm wondered what in the bloody hell had just happened. It was one thing to have a nightmare of the Captain when unconscious; more or less reproving, his C.O.'s gaze would probably haunt his dreams until his own guilt for coming back without him could be assuaged or pushed into a remote corner of his conscience. It was quite another thing to see the man when wide awake, merely because he had closed his eyes a few seconds; _and_ feeling... trapped by the vision. It must be his concussion. This time he really had banged his head hard: the nausea and dizziness were there to testify to it. He was surprised the Doctor had let him out of sickbay, actually. It just went to show how concerned everybody, even the Denobulan, was about finding Archer.

* * *

The reddish image of the planet filled the viewscreen, drawing Trip's eye the moment he stepped onto the Bridge. He felt better, having washed away all that dust; though he would have gladly stayed under the shower for longer than he had allowed himself.

The sound of the lift doors opening made a few gazes turn, and he tore himself away from the view to briefly acknowledge Travis's and Müller's greeting nods before meeting T'Pol's steady eyes. Beside her, at the Communications console, Hoshi was still entirely concentrated on her job.

"I have received the analysis of the dust collected from Lieutenant Reed's uniform," T'Pol said. "Its structure is peculiar: each speck has hundreds of miniscule surfaces." With a typical lift of her eyebrows she reasoned, "It is curious that, given its prismatic nature, it should appear as having a reddish colour."

"I can see that giving our sensors problems," Trip commented. "The dust's structure, I mean."

"Yes. I believe it is what partially blocks our sensors: readings that are reflected in different directions interfere with one another, effectively erasing some of the information."

Trip leaned one elbow on the back of the empty Captain's chair. "Can anything be done to reconstruct the missing parts?"

T'Pol had quite obviously already considered the idea, for her reply came without delay.

"We cannot be entirely certain that the result will be accurate, but in theory it can be done."

"Do it, then," Trip ordered on impulse, forgetting he was talking to a superior officer. "I mean…" he self-consciously rephrased, "I think it's worth a try."

His breach of protocol won him fully lifted eyebrows and a silent look which lingered a moment longer than necessary. Still, it was kinder than a verbal reprimand in front of the Bridge crew.

"I agree," T'Pol eventually said.

Trip nodded gratefully. Not for the first time he mused that their First Officer was pretty hard to figure out. If she put her mind to it she could be outright irritating; haughty and patronising like most of the Vulcans he had come across. Then, when you least expected it, she could surprise you with shows of kindness, like now, betraying some of those emotions she claimed Vulcans kept buried.

Clearing his throat, he went on to enquire, "How about the samples of ground I sent up? How long will it take to analyse them and…" He waved a hand in the air, leaving the rest unspoken. If the science lab found traces of Archer's DNA scattered over the wide area they had taken samples from, it would be a pretty grim piece of news.

"I'm expecting results any moment," T'Pol replied, as impassively as if she were talking of nothing of importance.

"What if they find nothin'?"

The idea was no less frightening, and Trip knew that it showed on his face.

T'Pol took a moment to react; in the end she rose from her chair. "We'll be in the ready room, Ensign," she told Mayweather. "You have the bridge."

"Aye, Ma'am."

Once the door had closed behind them, T'Pol turned to look very directly into Trip's eyes.

"When the twenty-four hours have passed, if we are no closer to finding out what happened to the Captain, we will have to follow Starfleet's orders," she said very calmly.

That was what Trip had feared. But if T'Pol was not willing to stage a mutiny, he was.

"I'm not gonna leave unless I'm sure the Capt'n is dead," he stated harshly.

"You will have no say in the matter, Commander," T'Pol countered serenely. Trip opened his mouth to argue but she anticipated him, adding meaningfully, "And unless I am mistaken, neither will I. The Admiral was quite clear about it."

Trip blew out the breath with which he was going to do battle, his irritation replaced by worry. "Let's hope we don't come to that," he muttered darkly.

"Indeed," T'Pol said, her tone, to Trip's ears at least, equally as dark.

* * *

Vulcan robes looked uncomfortable – Admiral Blake thought, as he eyed the immobile form near the large porthole in the observation lounge. Though their colours were rich – if not particularly bright – the garments looked rather heavy, and as stiff as the people who wore them. He was grateful that Starfleet stylists had gone for uniforms with clean and traditional military lines.

"I must express my disappointment, Admiral," V'Sir said, hands latched behind his back, which was still turned to him. "You know how important it is that we reach our destination in time."

He wasn't a particularly likeable man, Blake decided. Not that many Vulcans were – likeable – in his experience. They had that aura of infallibility about them that got on most people's nerves. Plus, he would never trust people who were as flat as a mountain lake.

"We will get there in time," he answered, matching coldness with coldness. He was as good as any Vulcan in that respect. "This ship is capable of Warp five. When the twenty-four hours are up I will make sure we break orbit."

"It is unfortunate that we could not use a Vulcan vessel." V'Sir finally turned. He inflated his chest, chin lifting up as if to make more room. "This situation would undoubtedly not have arisen."

"Vulcan ships are required to answer distress calls, too," Blake said, taking a few unhurried steps towards the overly thin man; not that he could remember seeing many fat Vulcans, now that he thought of it.

"A Vulcan crew would have studied the signal and its source from orbit," V'Sir scornfully reminded him. "A Vulcan ship's Captain would never have embarked on an away mission, especially not a foolish one such as that during which Captain Archer disappeared. Your race's impetuousness risks undermining a diplomatic mission which has taken the High Command months to arrange."

Blake clenched his jaw, calling upon his self-control. This was not the time for an argument, much as he would like to give this arrogant man a piece of his mind.

"My race may be impetuous, but it is the one which is helping you carry out your mission," he did, however, remind him. He narrowed his gaze, not afraid to hold V'Sir's.

"Do not fool yourself – and me – Admiral: Earth will gain from this mission as well."

That, Blake had to admit, was true.

"That may well be," he conceded. "But the mission is not without its risks, and when it comes to taking risks, it seems that other races are just as _impetuous_ – and quick to pull themselves out of the picture."

They looked at each other for a long moment, neither willing to lower his gaze first.

"However, I do not wish this incident to ruin our friendly relationship," Blake eventually added, forcing a smile to creep upon his face. "Let me assure you again, Ambassador: you will get to your appointment in time."

V'Sir studied him a moment longer, his eyes tracking briefly to his mouth as if to gauge the sincerity of that smile; then gave a small nod. "I agree." Unfolding his arms, which half-way through their conversation had crossed over his chest, he said, "I trust you will keep me informed of any progress. Good night, Admiral."

With that he exited the room, leaving Blake with a strong desire to roll his eyes.

TBC

Looking forward to your comments!

Also, I see some of you have voted in my poll. Please feel free to send me a pm with suggestions for "special months" - for my next poll!


	5. Chapter 5

A special thank you to my reviewers. I love to read your comments.

Chapter five, and things are beginning to get more complicated...

§ 5 §

Entering his quarters at the end of that fateful day, Trip let the door swish closed, and stood immobile in the middle of the small room. The stars streamed by outside his porthole, and he quickly averted his gaze from what, all of a sudden, was an anguishing view. Enterprise was speeding away from that red planet, where a part of him would undoubtedly remain chained to the mystery they were leaving behind. He felt lost and dispirited, and even though he had sworn to himself that he wouldn't mourn, not yet, not before finding out the truth – for sooner or later, one way or another he _would_ find out the truth – he couldn't help it: his hopes of seeing his Capt'n, his friend, alive again were shrinking with every metre they were putting between them and that obelisk.

Eventually breaking his immobility, Trip shuffled numbly to the bathroom and turned the shower on. Maybe standing under a hot stream for a while would ease some of his tautness. As he went about mechanically removing his clothes, flashbacks from what had just passed went through his mind.

The twenty-four hours that the Ambassador had given them had gone by, and the only additional piece of information they had been able to gather was that there was no trace of Archer's DNA in the earth samples Trip and his team had collected. He would have considered that good news, or at least hopeful news, except for the fact that Blake had marched into the ready room with impatience painted all over him, and proceeded to order Enterprise back on her previous course.

Trip stepped under the water and turned his face up to it. Holding his breath against the downpour, he let the thunderous pummelling carry his thoughts away from the scene that wanted to replay endlessly in his mind; but as soon as he came up for air, his memory lost no time rushing back to that ready room meeting. What had really happened? Where had loyalties stood?

"I desire to consult Starfleet Command on this," T'Pol had told Blake, when the man had imparted his order.

Desire! _Demand_, that's what she should have said. Her calm, politely controlled voice had angered Trip, who had over-reacted and, of course, shot his mouth off. His own words played like a broken record in his mind. To silence them he turned the water on harder, but they were still there, taunting him.

"You cannot order us to leave and abandon our Captain!" he had barked.

Blake had frozen him with but one look. Trip remembered thinking that he had never seen dark eyes with such an icy quality to them.

"Wrong, Commander," the man had countered easily. "Your Captain is quite obviously beyond rescue, and as of this moment I am taking command of the Enterprise."

Trip had opened his mouth to object, but had been silenced with a firm, "And I suggest you keep in line, Mister Tucker. Or I will have to order security to lock you in the brig."

While Trip's mind was reeling, Blake had gone on to quote some damned article from the damned Starfleet rulebook, and T'Pol…

Banging a flat palm on the faucet, Trip cut the water off. His hands closed into hard fists and he leaned on them against the wall, closing his eyes. T'Pol had said a big fat nothing. She had handed command of Enterprise over without a damn word.

Was it possible that she was privy to something he wasn't? After all they were carrying a Vulcan Ambassador to some mysterious rendezvous. Where did T'Pol stand? Was she loyal to Captain Archer and this crew, or to her own people? He thought he had known, but now he didn't any more. Hell, she hadn't even made a ship-wide announcement: didn't she care how the crew felt, seeing that they had broken orbit without their Captain? But of course. She was Vulcan. No feelings.

"We have no choice but to obey the Admiral," she had repeated once again, with that infuriating calm, after Blake had left.

"We can't leave, T'Pol! We need to do something!" Trip had doggedly urged her.

"There is nothing we can do, at the moment."

Trip had felt despair grip him, and had stormed out of the ready room.

Finally finding the will to move, Trip dragged himself out of the shower and started towelling himself off. The weariness of those tense hours had suddenly crashed down on him. He needed rest. He didn't know what had held him back from physically assaulting Blake and leading a mutiny. A part of him now wondered half-seriously if Malcolm would have joined the cause, or obeyed Blake and thrown him – Trip – in the brig. The Lieutenant was a stickler for regulations and the chain of command, but his loyalty to Enterprise, unlike T'Pol's, was not to be doubted. And he had seen how guilt-ridden the man was feeling about what had happened planet-side. Trip wondered how Malcolm was doing. He hadn't talked to him since Phlox had let him out of sickbay, and he had looked unwell and troubled. As Trip pulled on a pair of sweatpants he made a mental note to find some time soon to speak to him.

* * *

Malcolm crossed the mess hall to Sato's table and slipped – well, slipped wasn't the right word: more like _tentatively lowered_ himself – into the chair across from her. He had almost gone off to the empty table in the far corner, but till Phlox gave him a shot, walking was not on his favourites' list.

"So, how are you feeling, Lieutenant?" Hoshi enquired, with a quick glance that told him she had noticed his physical discomfort.

Her voice had been almost normal, with just a hint of vibrato in it. She was putting up a good front, Malcolm thought. But then he studied the jerking movements of her knife as she cut her pancakes into painstakingly small morsels and changed his mind. He didn't know when and how Hoshi had been told that Enterprise would resume her course, but he imagined it had been a hard blow. Archer had been a sort of father figure for the young linguist.

"It appears that once again I have survived."

As soon as the words were out of his mouth Malcolm regretted his idiotic sarcasm. Somebody else hadn't – survived. Indeed Hoshi stopped and regarded him in shock, emotion twinkling in her eyes. But she bravely swallowed it back and returned to mincing her food.

"I'm sorry," Malcolm mumbled. "I..." He pushed his cup away, no longer feeling like tea. "I'm better."

It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't all of the truth either. His head had stopped throbbing and his nausea was gone. But he was still sore all over and could hardly close his eyes without seeing the Captain. It was like a chain reaction: his eyes closed and the Captain's opened in his mind. He had slept little and badly, and if that haunting vision was a trick of his guilt-ridden conscience, then this time he really had it bad.

Hoshi suddenly stopped what she was doing and froze in mid action, as if she had just realised what a mess she was making of her breakfast. Slowly putting her cutlery down, she muttered without lifting her gaze, "If I had been able to understand that message, maybe none of this would have happened."

So he wasn't the only one with pangs of conscience.

"If we hadn't picked up that signal in the first place, none of this would have happened," Malcolm countered darkly. "Don't blame yourself, Ensign. You can't expect to have an instant grasp of all the languages of the galaxy."

"Same as you can't expect to anticipate all the dangers the galaxy will throw at us, Lieutenant?" Hoshi countered, now lifting meaningful eyes on him.

Malcolm's facial muscles tightened. "It's different," he said, his voice all spikes. He shifted away from her assessing gaze. "Going so close to that obelisk was a stupid lack of precaution on the Captain's part: I should have prevented it, it's my job."

Hoshi tilted her head, mouth twitching to the side. "You just called the Captain stupid, Sir," she said, with a touch of annoyance. "It's not nice to speak badly of..."

Malcolm watched her falter and swallow. He sighed.

"I wouldn't do that," he said gently, adding to himself _no matter how outright irritating the man was at times_. "I said his lack of precaution was stupid." A sharp something went through his heart, and he scrunched his eyes shut. "I had cautioned him," he burst out. "I shouldn't have let him--"

Annoyed that he had let her get a glimpse of his own frustration and guilt, he cut himself off. He was her superior officer, couldn't afford to show weakness.

In the silence that fell between them, he listened to the background noises of the mess hall. Life on board the starship Enterprise went on: not even the loss of her Captain could halt it. If he didn't know better, this sounded like the beginning of any other day. He had always found it sad, in a way, that life didn't stop in the face of death; that your biological needs didn't go on hold. No matter how much you were grieving, your body carried you around, needed food, exercise, sleep… Trip perhaps would say it was a blessing, a way to get you over your mourning more quickly. But he thought there was something irreverent in it all.

"I don't think I can stand to sit at my station with that Admiral in Captain Archer's chair," Hoshi suddenly said, tautly.

Malcolm hadn't actually thought about it – until now. "It won't be easy, but we'll have to."

They held each other's eyes for a moment, and he struggled to be strong for her, though he felt anything but.

Hoshi started to move out of her seat.

"Would you do me a favour?" Malcolm stopped her. The words tumbled out of his mouth. "Keep trying to decipher that message."

Hoshi's brow creased in a determined expression. "You don't need to worry about it, Lieutenant. Sooner or later I'll know what it says."

Malcolm gave her a pale smile. "We'll be okay, Hoshi," he reassured her quietly. Not that he believed it entirely. But now that the Captain was gone he felt even greater responsibility towards the crew.

"Yeah," she replied, half-heartedly.

Malcolm watched her leave; then got to his own feet too, repressing a groan. He'd get Phlox to change – preferably remove – the dressing on his head and give him something for his bruised old bones, and then he'd report to the Bridge.

* * *

"Ah. Lieutenant Reed, is it?"

There was a hint of something in the Admiral's voice which Malcolm didn't like. He had been introduced to Blake when the man had come on board, but had hardly met him afterwards. He straightened his shoulders, switching on his unreadable look for the imposing man who had turned to him as soon as he had stepped out of the lift. Why did superior officers always have to tower over him? No Napoleons in Starfleet.

"Aye, Sir. Lieutenant Malcolm Reed, reporting for duty."

He noticed, with his peripheral vision, that T'Pol and Hoshi were looking his way.

"You're fine, then, Lieutenant?" Blake's eyebrows lifted. "I had been told you had suffered a severe concussion."

Again, that hint of… Malcolm took an instant dislike of the man. "I have been cleared for light duty," he replied flatly. "Permission to take my station?" _And get over with it_ – he added irritably in his mind.

Blake looked him straight in the eye for a moment longer; then nodded and went to sit in the Captain's chair.

Slipping out of the seat at Tactical, Müller gave Malcolm a quick report, his green gaze telling him more. Malcolm dismissed him with a quiet, "Take care of the Armoury, Bernhard." Then he prepared for what would undoubtedly be a long and difficult shift.

Trip was nowhere to be seen. The Engineer had probably buried himself in work in the bowels of the ship, and Malcolm envied him a little. If Phlox hadn't ordered him to take it easy, he would have gladly found some physically exacting job and got himself exhausted. Then perhaps he might hope for a good night of sleep, when the time came.

Lifting his gaze, Malcolm studied Travis, sitting, absorbed, at the helm. Where the hell were they going, anyway? Mayweather had been given a set of coordinates, but as far as he had gathered they led to no specific place. He wondered what T'Pol knew of this _urgent_ mission – if anything.

Something beeped, and he dropped his gaze back to his instruments.

"A ship on long-range sensors," T'Pol said, anticipating him.

Blake turned to her. "What ship?"

"It appears to be Andorian."

"They're hailing us," Hoshi added, with an unobtrusive glance at T'Pol.

"Ignore them," Blake ordered. He got up and climbed down to the helm. "Ensign, how fast are we going?"

"Warp four, Sir."

"Go to four point five."

"With all due respect, Admiral," Malcolm said, feeling a secret satisfaction in teaching the man something, "I'm afraid Enterprise cannot outrun an Andorian ship."

"Then maybe they'll get the idea that we're not interested in speaking to them," Blake retorted acidly.

Malcolm pursed his lips to keep in what he thought of that. He looked across the Bridge and caught Hoshi's troubled gaze and T'Pol's, Vulcanly steady.

Not a chance Trip might decide to make an appearance just now, was there?

TBC

Ok, your turn to write! :-)


	6. Chapter 6

Thank you to all my reviewers. Mystique 1981, if you are reading this: LOL! I liked the mental image that Greece is only a hop away from Italy! Wouldn't want, in case you miscalculated your hop, you to plunge into the Adriatic, so I'll try to keep the FIN stories coming! ;-)

§ 6 §

"They are gaining on us," Travis said, eyes on his instruments.

"They are hailing us again," Hoshi echoed him.

"Go to Warp five, Ensign," Blake ordered tersely.

Travis shot a quick, wide-eyed glance towards the science station; when no counter-order came from there, he acknowledged with a quiet, "Aye, Sir."

A second later T'Pol stood up. In Malcolm's mind, that was tantamount to flying off the handle; in Vulcan terms of course.

"Admiral, I fail to see the logic behind this course of action," she said in a compelling variance of her level tone of voice. "We have no issues with the Andorians."

_We, who? _Malcolm wondered. Vulcans did have a few issues with the blue aliens, as far as he understood. Did T'Pol consider herself part of Starfleet now? Trip should have been here to hear that.

Blake turned his head to her in what looked like bland annoyance. "Subcommander, we have wasted enough time. I'm not out here to answer any the weird automated signal we receive, or hail from the ships we come across."

_What _are_ you out here for? _Malcolm silently questioned him; aloud, he warned, "If we don't answer their hails, soon we might well find ourselves in the position to have to answer their phase cannons."

"I don't remember asking your opinion, Lieutenant," Blake snapped, jerking back to him. "Did Captain Archer always keep such slack discipline on his Bridge?"

He looked – Malcolm thought – like a snake coiled to attack.

"Captain Archer encouraged the senior staff to express their opinions."

T'Pol's voice was unconfrontational but self-assured, and Malcolm was glad she had saved him from answering that rebuke himself: his own reply would have undoubtedly been a lot less restrained. He might be inclined to agree with Blake about Bridge protocol, but his loyalty did _not_ lay with this man.

"Well, I prefer senior officers to keep their opinions to themselves, unless they are asked," Blake retorted. Turning to the right again, he added, in a subtly provocative tone, "And in case of a fire fight I do hope that as an Armoury Officer you are slightly more proficient than you were as a Security one, Lieutenant."

Malcolm's heart missed a beat. The cutting remark hurt more than he cared to admit, because he felt it wasn't altogether undeserved. He had failed in his duty to protect his captain. He was momentarily left without a reply; but indeed, perhaps one wasn't even expected. It was T'Pol, once again, who came to his rescue.

"Lieutenant Reed, both as Armoury _and_ Security Officer, has the complete trust of this crew," she said, with a characteristic lift of her eyebrows.

Blake mirrored her expression. "He does? That's good to know."

After his role in Archer's demise, Malcolm seriously doubted he deserved that trust. T'Pol's words were, however, unexpectedly comforting. It was surprising to find an advocate in the person on board who, in the past months, had not refrained from underlining all the faux pas Humans made out here in space. The pain in his chest dulled a little, and he shot the Vulcan a grateful look. It was lost on her, however, because her steady gaze remained locked with Blake's spirited one, seemingly in a battle of wills.

It was a relief when Trip's voice sounded through the comm. link, drawing attention away from the issue of his professional proficiency or lack thereof.

"Tucker to the Bridge: why are we travellin' at Warp five?" the Engineer asked outright.

"Not another one," Blake muttered under his breath. "Because I ordered it, Commander," he replied aloud as he opened the link on the Captain's armrest. "Do I need your approval?"

There was a small pause.

"Not my approval, Admiral; but Engineering needs a little warnin'," Trip came back warily. "You doknow that we cannot hold that speed for very long, don't you?."

Blake snorted. "I thought this ship was the pride of the fleet, Earth's first Warp five vessel," he said, stressing the words. "What's the point of making such a fuss about it if we cannot travel at that speed?"

"Enterprise can do Warp five just fine; just not as her cruisin' speed."

Malcolm could hear the edge in Trip's voice. It wasn't the Southerner's usual kindly tone.

"With all due respect, Admiral," Trip went on tautly. "I said we'd make your rendezvous in time and I intend to keep my word. We don't need to strain the warp engine in the process."

"With all due respect, Admiral," T'Pol echoed, albeit without that edge in her voice, "Given that we cannot outrun the Andorian ship, your course of action appears illogical, in fact counterproductive."

"Andorian ship?" Trip's voice enquired in puzzlement.

"An Andorian ship is hailing us, Commander," T'Pol informed him.

Hoshi nodded, silently biting her lip. She didn't need to speak: urgency was painted all over her face.

"They're still closing on us," Mayweather said, turning to the Vulcan.

Malcolm's console came alive. "Subcommander," he warned, he too choosing to bypass Blake. "I'm reading a power surge. They're arming their weapons."

Suddenly the Admiral shot up from the Captain's chair. He was a taut some one-hundred-and-eighty pounds of muscle and nerves.

"All right," he said through clenched teeth. "Answer their hails. Get rid of them, and make sure you don't mention my presence on board, or that of Ambassador V'Sir."

With a last meaningful glance at the Subcommander, he strode up the few steps and proceeded to lock himself in Archer's ready room.

"Ensign Mayweather, go to Warp three point five," T'Pol immediately said, taking position by the vacated Captain's chair. Nodding to Hoshi, she silently ordered a link open. A pair of well-known antennae appeared on the screen.

Commander Shran, of the Andorian Imperial Guard, looked ready to explode into a string of harsh words, but as soon as he saw who was on Enterprise's Bridge his face registered first surprise; then suspicion.

"Subcommander, where is Captain Archer?" he demanded, brown eyes narrowing.

The enquiry made Malcolm shift nervously on his chair. He looked around, fearing Shran might read the answer to his question on his crewmates' faces, but, to his relief, no one gave anything away. He didn't know why he felt Shran shouldn't be told, actually; perhaps it was he – Malcolm – who feared to hear it said aloud: it would make Archer's death final and accepted. He carefully schooled his own features; Shran might take a good look at him and suspect something – and not only because of the bruise on his forehead.

"The Captain is not here," T'Pol replied noncommittally.

Apparently she too didn't see it necessary to inform Shran of the why.

Shran's gaze hardened. "I'm not blind, Vulcan. So if Captain Archer is off duty, you sit in his chair giving orders to ignore another ship's hails? In fact, you speed away from her?"

He had taken T'Pol's words at face value.

"I apologise," their Second in Command offered. "But I had no particular wish to speak to a Commander of the Imperial Guard."

Impressive. Attack as a defensive move. Malcolm almost gave a nod of approval.

Just then the lift doors opened and Trip stepped on the Bridge, undoubtedly determined to see with his own eyes what was going on. He took but a glance at Shran, and shot a frowning look at T'Pol.

Malcolm could well imagine the thoughts that were crossing his friend's mind. Their first run into the Andorians, at P'Jem, had been rather hostile, but had ended up with Archer helping uncover a Vulcan spy station. Their second one, a few months later, had ended with Shran helping Trip and Malcolm rescue Archer – to whom he had felt indebted – and T'Pol from a militant faction on a planet. Still – Malcolm mused – in both cases Vulcans and Andorians had butted heads, and it wasn't very clear whether either race was to be fully trusted. Malcolm was glad Trip had come up: he wanted him to witness firsthand what would pass between Shran and T'Pol.

"Commander Tucker," Shran greeted, a mirthless half smile playing on his lips. "I was complaining about the Subcommander's ungallant behaviour: unanswered hails, out here in space, can lead to regrettable incidents." His scornful expression changed to cold anger as he dropped all pretences and went for a direct, "Why were you so eager to get away from us?"

Trip straightened his shoulders. "Our two encounters didn't exactly leave us with a desire to see you again, Shran," he said.

Extraordinary – Malcolm mused. It was more or less the same reply T'Pol had given. Without knowing, Trip had supported her words. Different as they were, those two had apparently managed to think along the same lines, for once. Neither of them might like the idea, actually.

"Let me speak to Captain Archer," Shran demanded. "Vulcans are deceitful, and as far as Pinkskins are concerned, he's the only one I more or less trust."

Trip's jaw clenched. "That is not possible." Emotion briefly flitted across his features.

Shran's eyes bore into him, and Malcolm froze. But Trip regained control and added, "Captain Archer can't be reached at the moment."

The Andorian's gaze rested on him a moment longer; then scanned the Bridge. When it came to Malcolm, it stopped, narrowing.

"Nice bruise, Lieutenant," he said. "Too bad it's turning green already, a colour of skin I don't particularly like. Blue was undoubtedly more attractive. How did you get it?"

"I fell off the bed," Malcolm replied deadpan, crossing his arms over his chest. He might have, too, seeing how he had tossed and turned, prey to his haunting dreams.

Shran's silently considered the words, clearly repressing some angry reply.

"Was there something you wanted from us?" T'Pol courteously enquired.

The Andorian turned back to her. "Not really. Just thought I'd offer Archer a glass of Andorian ale." After a last inquisitive look, he added, "Have a good day. And say hello to your Captain for me."

The screen returned to show the stars again, and Malcolm relaxed his shoulders. Relief washing over him, he pressed two fingers on his eyes. Immediately Archer was there, compelling, pleading. _You left me behind_, the green gaze accused.

Flashing his eyes open, Malcolm jumped to his feet. Trip and T'Pol were discussing something; they stopped and looked at him in puzzlement.

"Permission to leave the Bridge for a few minutes?" Malcolm croaked out, knowing he must look like hell. To anticipate any enquiry he added, "I must report to sickbay for treatment."

T'Pol nodded. "Permission granted."

Malcolm beckoned a relief crewman to take his place; then, eyes on the deck plating, he walked to the lift, wondering if he might have PTS. Perhaps he was simply going out of his mind.

TBC

Looking forward to your comments.


	7. Chapter 7

This is a long one!

I remind you this is set around Season One (in case you find some of Trip's rumblings odd, :-) )

§ 7 §

As the lift doors closed behind Malcolm, Trip promised himself once again to check on him soon; the man had looked haunted.

"What the hell went on?" he demanded, returning to his conversation with T'Pol. They were behind the Captain's chair and he had kept his voice very low, relying on the Vulcan's strong hearing, but he noticed Travis's shoulders tense.

"It is quite obvious the Admiral has no experience commanding a ship."

T'Pol's serene reply contrasted almost cruelly with Trip's irritation. With her blasted impassivity she often did manage to make them all appear like neurotic brutes. Right now, though, Trip couldn't give a damn how he appeared.

He narrowed his eyes. "Then we cannot let him sit in that chair," he growled, pointing to the forlorn seat.

"We have already discussed the issue," the Vulcan countered. She latched her hands behind her back. "All we can do is to help the Ambassador make the right decisions."

"He just placed Enterprise at risk," Trip bit back. "What are you gonna do the next time, if he refuses to listen? If we run into…" – he waved a hand, looking for the worst scenario – "…a Klingon Bird-of-prey?"

"The Admiral is not a foolish person, Commander. I believe he can be made to see reason."

Throwing his head back, Trip passed a hand through his hair. There was no peaceful way out of this. So he might as well leave it at that.

"I'll be in Engineering," he said flatly, looking down at her. "And, for heaven's sake, don't let him go to Warp five," he added before leaving. "Or at least _help him _understand that he needs to tell us down there first."

* * *

As Trip leaned with one shoulder against the wall of the turbo-lift, emotions inside his chest churned like stormy waters. The pain of having lost a close friend was undoubtedly amplifying the hostility he felt towards Blake and, in a way, also towards T'Pol. He had always distrusted her unemotional front; it was something that put him ill at ease. He was a warm person, someone who wore his heart on his sleeve: T'Pol was… she wasn't only _reserved_, like Malcolm; Trip felt he always could tell what was going on inside the Lieutenant. T'Pol instead… she was like a cat, you never really knew if the hand you reached out to her wouldn't come away scathed. Like a cat, she might just as easily surprise you, showing friendliness when you least expected it. It was destabilising. To bear with the feline metaphor, you had to know them well before hoping to begin understanding them. Not for the first time, Trip wondered how well he knew T'Pol.

His thoughts going back to Malcolm, Trip heaved a concerned sigh. The man was not himself. And in their present situation he needed to be able to rely on him. He had to understand how far Reed could be pushed if bad came to worse. Maybe it wasn't such an idle consideration to wonder, in case of a debatable order from Blake, whether Malcolm would stand by him or stick to Starfleet regulations.

The lift stopped on E deck and Trip went out. He started down the hall towards Engineering; then, with a determined frown, turned around and went in the other direction. He'd go find Malcolm in sickbay; and while he was there, he would ask Phlox about the Lieutenant's health.

* * *

"Lieutenant Reed?"

Phlox's expression clearly conveyed the idea that he would never expect that particular officer to show up in sickbay of his own free will.

"He said he was comin' by for treatment," Trip said, wary of uncovering a white lie yet wanting to know how things stood.

Phlox's chin jerked down and back. "All I'm giving him at the moment is some painkiller for his bruises: he's still rather banged up." With a shrug, he added, "He's probably in the Armoury. He must have thought of something that was more important for him to do than look after his aches and pains."

"Yeah," Trip breathed out. "How is he – you know – otherwise?"

"He's out of danger. The first hours after a concussion are the most critical ones, as you know." Phlox studied Trip. "But somehow I don't think you are only enquiring after his physical health." He sighed. "Knowing Mister Reed, I'm sure that not all is perfectly well with him, psychologically, but he won't talk about it. I'm equally sure that he'll come out of it, in the long run, and that he is quite able to put his problems on hold and be professionally there for the ship, if needs be."

"Thanks, Doc," Trip said with a pale smile. "That's what I wanted to hear." He turned to go.

"Commander," Phlox stopped him. He took a step closer. "Losing the Captain was a hard blow for everyone on board, not only for the Lieutenant," he said in his paternal tone. "How are you holding up?"

Trip bit his lip, swallowing against the knot that was a bit too quick to form in his throat these days. "Same as Malcolm, I suppose. I'll come out of it, in the long run," he croaked out.

"You are not Lieutenant Reed," Phlox commented, blue eyes assessing. "He prefers to deal with things on his own, without sharing his troubles. I daresay he seems to like to suffer alone. But you are not that kind of person. If you ever wish to put my degree in psychology to the test, so to speak, I'll gladly put my knowledge at your disposal."

"I might take you up on that offer, one of these days, Doc. After we drop off the Admiral and Ambassador." Trip smirked. "Right now I have too many other things on my mind."

"Very well," Phlox said with a mirthless smile. "Any time you're ready, you'll know where to find me."

* * *

T'Pol stopped in front of their guest's quarters on C deck. She looked up and down the corridor, hand hovering in front of the bell; then turned to the door and pressed. Almost a minute passed before the door swished open.

"Am I disturbing you?" she asked the person who appeared on the other side.

Whatever Ambassador V'Sir felt, he did not show it. Not surprisingly. Right now his emotions must be well under control: although T'Pol had not let her eyes stray from the angular face, with her peripheral vision she had caught a glimpse of lit candles.

"I was meditating," the Ambassador replied, without giving away the slightest irritation. The silence that followed those words, though, was quite eloquent.

"I apologise. I will come back another time," T'Pol said. She ought to have anticipated that at this time V'Sir might be carrying out that Vulcan practice.

"No." V'Sir stood aside. "I was nearly finished."

T'Pol looked at him for a moment, to be sure that she was welcome. Then nodded and went in.

"You have lived with Humans for too long," the thin Vulcan commented, as he followed her inside. "You have forgotten the Vulcan ways."

T'Pol wondered briefly if there was any truth in the man's words. She still felt profoundly Vulcan, but had to admit that some of the customs and peculiarities of her Human crewmates had become slightly less annoying with time.

"I merely meditate later in the evening, before I go to sleep, when I am certain I will not be…" She caught herself; then turned and finished, "Interrupted."

Raising a silent brow, V'Sir waited for her to go on.

"I believe you know why I am here," T'Pol stated.

"The Vulcan High Command expects you to assist us in every way possible," V'Sir replied, cutting right to the core.

T'Pol heaved a deep – if silent – sigh. She crossed her arms loosely over her chest, and waited for him to go on.

* * *

Malcolm was indeed in the Armoury. Trip stepped inside and hesitated for a moment, taking in the quiet and spotless domain of Lieutenant Reed. The man himself was with Ensign Bernhard Müller on the elevated platform, at the main console. Reed had his back to the door, but from the crooked way he leaned on the console, favouring his left side, Trip could tell the stubborn man should indeed have taken a detour to sickbay before burying himself in here.

As soon as Trip moved forward, Müller spotted him. "Commander," he greeted, with a nod.

Malcolm turned, one hand darting briefly to his lower back. "Sir," he echoed, ever proper before the rest of the crew.

"May I have a word with you?" Trip asked. Before the man could send his Second away, he added, "Maybe we can grab a cup of somethin', or a bite to eat."

Malcolm nodded. "Carry on, Ensign," he told Bernhard. Then he climbed down the few steps to the main floor. He pretended to manage them without a flinch, but Trip didn't fail to notice that his movements were a lot less fluid than usual.

They walked side by side along the corridor in silence for a long moment.

"I though you were gonna go to sickbay," Trip finally dared.

"I was, but got diverted." A cutting side glance darted Trip's way. "Trip, if you've come to bother me about my well-known aversion to sickbay, or – worse – to tell me how to take care of myself, I---"

"Hey," Trip cut the tirade off, taking the Lieutenant by one arm and stopping them. "I'm only worried about you," he said, boring into the tired grey eyes. He cast a glance to the bottom of the corridor, where one of his own staff had appeared, and let go of the arm. They resumed walking. "Don't think it isn't obvious that you can hardly stand straight," he added quietly.

"It's only a bloody bruise or two," Malcolm bit back through gritted teeth.

They fell silent for another moment, till the young engineer had passed by.

"All right." Malcolm continued sarcastically. "I groan when I sit down, and then when I get back up; indeed my bones ache when I stand and even when I lie down, but aren't I lucky? I ought to be thanking heaven that I'm in pain, it's still better than feeling nothing, ever again."

Trip couldn't believe his ears.

"Are you tryin' to punish yourself? You don't have to feel pain. There are things called _painkillers_."

By now they had come to the mess hall doors, and it was Malcolm who stopped and turned to him.

"Trip, can we please talk of more important things than my bruises?"

He didn't sound angry any more, just plain exhausted, and troubled.

"That is assuming you wanted to talk to me about what happened on the Bridge," he went on. "If not, I'd really rather go back to the Armoury. I'm not hungry, anyway."

Trip let his jaw jut out in a determined expression. "Come on," he muttered, leading the way into the mess.

A few minutes later they were sitting at a far table, a pasta dish in front of each. Sometimes Trip felt like a damn bastard, pulling rank on Malcolm for things like these; but it was for the man's own good. Besides, he wasn't hungry himself, but they both had a duty to keep their strength up.

"What do you think of Blake?" Trip enquired, forcing himself to give the good example, and shoving the first morsel into his mouth.

Malcolm fiddled with his fork. "He's the typical example of a big shot whose general idea of work is to sit behind a desk and give orders," he said with a sarcastic huff. "I don't like him. And his dislike of _me_ isn't influencing my judgement – not by much at any rate."

Trip studied his friend. His face had darkened, like his tone. "His dislike of you?" he repeated. "Have I missed somethin'?"

Malcolm smirked. "Right. You weren't there when he said he hoped I was more competent as an Armoury than a Security Officer."

Trip's face tightened in outrage. "Don't listen to him, Malcolm."

"Easier said than done," Malcolm muttered, finally taking his first, reluctant bite.

It was lunch time, and the Mess hall was slowly filling up. Trip watched the people in line at the serving cabinets; then let his eyes travel around to the tables: there weren't many smiling faces around. Not one, actually.

"I'd really like to know what this mission is all about," Malcolm added gloomily. "You'd think we'd have a right to know."

"The Capt'n probably knew," Trip breathed out. "What _I_ would like to know, is how T'Pol fits into the picture. Whether I can trust her or not."

Malcolm lowered his fork. "T'Pol? Why should you not trust her?"

"Well, she didn't put up much of a fight when Blake wanted command of the ship," Trip spat out. "She let him take her out of orbit the moment the twenty-four hours were up. Sometimes I feel she knows more than she lets on. She's Vulcan, after all, and we're carrying a Vulcan Ambassador."

Eyes on a nondescript spot on the table, Malcolm considered the words. "On the Bridge, before, she talked as if she felt more part of Starfleet than of the High Command," he said, pensively. With a soft huff of disbelief he added, "She even took my defence."

Trip studied the lines on Malcolm's face; the dark circles under his eyes. "You look like you're ready to drop. I think I'll order you to bed, Lieutenant."

For the reaction he got, he might as well have ordered him to his execution: Malcolm looked up abruptly.

"You're not serious, are you?"

His voice was... All Trip knew was that it gave him strange vibes. He hadn't meant what he'd said, actually; but now he wasn't so sure any more: a bit of rest might do his friend some good.

"Phlox cleared you only for light duty, didn't he?" he tried.

"He meant I shouldn't do any physically demanding job," Malcolm countered. "Please, Trip," he went on. "If you lock me up in my quarters..." He swallowed, looking strangely brittle. "I don't want to stop and think," he finally confessed.

Trip bit his lip. It wasn't every day that Malcolm Reed admitted to weakness and reached out for help. Well, he was about to do the same.

"I need you, and I need you in good shape," he said after a moment of debate. "I don't like this situation. The Admiral might give another idiotic order and place the ship at risk again, and T'Pol doesn't seem able, or even willin' to stop him."

There was a puzzled pause. Trip watched the meaning of his words slowly sink in.

"What exactly are you saying?" Malcolm finally asked, his voice dropping guardedly low.

Trip didn't avoid the grey eyes, which had turned wary. "I'm sayin' that I'm not gonna stand idle and watch Blake place this crew in danger again because of his incompetence."

Malcolm frowned. "And what would you do?"

"I don't know what I would do," Trip admitted. "But this is Enterprise, Capt'n Archer's ship. And I know he wouldn't let some idiot place the lives of his crew in unnecessary danger."

His heated words left a heavy silence in their wake. Trip held his breath.

"If I get it right, you are asking me to put my career on the line," Malcolm eventually said, looking very directly into Trip's eyes. "More than that, you're asking me to put my honour on the line."

It was true. He had no right. Trip heaved a deep breath. "Look, Malcolm, I… I don't expect you to do anything against your will. I just wanted you to know how I feel about this mess. And if bad comes to worse, well… you just follow your conscience."

Malcolm leaned back, pinching the bridge of his nose. He looked even more troubled than before, which made Trip silently curse. This had accomplished nothing but to add to their worries and miseries. Life was so cruel sometimes. In the space of a few days it had turned tables on them so damn drastically.

"I honestly don't know what I would do if you went against the Admiral, Commander," Malcolm eventually and more officially said, his voice more tired than it had been a moment before. "My loyalty is with this crew. My job is to defend _them_, but I am a military man, discipline has been my life ever since I can remember. I can't change that."

Trip smiled despite himself. Wasn't that a big part of what made Malcolm Reed the officer they valued and respected? With a flash of intuition he realised that if Malcolm had told him that he'd readily follow him in a mutiny, he'd have been disappointed.

"I know," Trip said warmly. "And I appreciate that, believe me."

Another paused ensued. Trip hoped this conversation would not remain as a thorn in the side of their friendship. The two of them were very different persons, and the bond they had developed was bound to be stretched from time to time. But he didn't want it ever to tear beyond repair. Now that he understood Malcolm's quiet ways a little, and was able to see beyond the fence the man usually put up, he had decided this was a friend he wanted to keep.

"Come on," he said, trying, despite his feelings, to lighten the tone. "Let's finish eating. I won't let you get up before that plate is empty."

Malcolm shot him a look. "I haven't been told that since I was about eight."

Trip lifted his eyebrows. "Not bad for a record, Lieutenant."

TBC

A tiny, little review?


	8. Chapter 8

Thank you to all my reviewers. I loved the reviews for the past chapter, and I have corrected the little blunders that had escaped even the careful and always excellent job of my betas.

§ 8 §

Ensign Müller raised his eyes from the tactical station and pointed them straight across the Bridge, to Subcommander T'Pol. Though his brain registered the figure on the left side of his peripheral vision, the one sitting in Captain Archer's chair – Bernhard still thought of it as Captain Archer's chair – he refused to let his gaze stray to it. What he was trying to do, he supposed, was get the Vulcan Officer to lift her own eyes and meet his. After all, weren't Vulcans telepathic? But maybe it took _two_ telepathic individuals to work the trick, and unless he had skills he wasn't aware of, he hadn't got the gift.

If truth be told, Bernhard had mixed feelings about what he was doing – ignoring the person currently in command of Enterprise, that is – but after what had happened a few hours before, and especially after Blake's allusive comments about Lieutenant Reed's lack of professionalism, he couldn't bring himself to consider the Admiral worthy of the respect a figure in command deserved.

The problem remained, though. The pulsing blip which had been showing on and off at the very edge of the sensors' range for the past half hour was still there, and although he knew what it was, he wasn't sure what to make of it. What he was pretty sure of, was that the Subcommander must have seen it too. If he could only capture T'Pol's eyes he might be able to read in them if his assumption was correct, and maybe even what she intended to do about it.

His own guilty silence was making him more uncomfortable with every second that ticked by, and Bernhard was beginning to wonder what he might risk in the way of punishment, if he purposefully withheld information from the Acting Captain. This would definitely be a good moment for Lieutenant Reed to make a surprise appearance and offer to relieve him, but he knew it would be just about as likely as T'Pol breaking into laughter; Reed had gone back to the Armoury from his lunch with Commander Tucker looking even more troubled than before, and had asked him to do Bridge duty in his place for the afternoon. Well, as far as he was concerned, the man couldn't be blamed for not wanting to spend time in the place on board where, more than anywhere else, he'd be reminded of Archer's absence; indeed, what was even worse, where he would have to stand the sight of a man who – if rumours were true – had accused him of incompetence.

With a silent sigh, Bernhard studied the Vulcan lady across from him: why was T'Pol keeping quiet about the fact that the Andorian ship seemed to be following them? Correction: was _definitely_ following them, and in a stealthy way; if Lieutenant Reed hadn't recently improved the efficiency of long-range sensors that blip wouldn't be there now. The Andorians, who couldn't know of Reed's upgrades, obviously thought they were keeping out of the sensors' range. They just about were, but not quite, hence the intermittent reading.

Well, this couldn't go on for much longer. Bernhard cleared his throat. To his relief, Blake didn't even flinch, but T'Pol looked up, as if she had almost expected a reaction of some sort from him. Now that he thought of it, the Vulcan Officer must have wondered the same things: why he wasn't saying anything about something that was obviously appearing on his instruments. Their eyes met for a very long moment. Eventually, an unobtrusive nod told him she was acknowledging his silent message. Bernhard responded likewise and returned to keep that blip under observation. He only hoped he wasn't going to end up in the brig.

Oblivious to the exchange, Blake was playing Captain: lost in his thoughts, eyes fixed on the viewscreen.

* * *

Malcolm had had to call upon all of his discipline to get to the end of his meal. Years of having to eat what was put in front of him without complaint had come in handy. In the end he had gobbled down his food simply because it had taken less of an effort to do that than to engage in an open confrontation with Trip. He didn't have the energy – the mental energy – for arguing right now. So, feeling indeed like a bloody child again, he had forced the rest of the food down his throat; then, ignoring his friend's assessing look, he had excused himself and left the mess.

Now he was wandering without an aim. He had asked Müller to replace him on the Bridge; he wasn't going to be of any use there, with so much on his mind. Nor did he feel like returning to the Armoury, where he knew he would be the target of obtrusive glances. He had dismissed his quarters as well: too much silence. His thoughts were chasing him down the corridors of the ship, and he didn't know how to escape them.

All he had needed was for Trip to come and warn him that he might turn Enterprise in a new Bounty. Had Trip really expected approval and support for his rebellious plans from a Reed? What a fool! Dislikeable as Blake was, he was still an Admiral of Starfleet, and the person in command, at the moment.

Hypocrite. Hadn't he himself been a step away from defiance… a step away! He had defied – hadn't he? – the man, right on the Bridge, by addressing T'Pol instead of him.

This Reed had defied his C.O.. So much for calling Trip a fool.

Bloody hypocrite.

Suddenly the Observation lounge was in front of him. It was probably too early in the afternoon for the place to be crowded. Malcolm triggered the doors open and stepped in. Casting a look around, he saw with relief that the room was, in fact, empty. His eyes went to the large porthole and he stopped dead in his tracks, awed like a recruit on his first flight by the beautiful sight. He hardly ever came here, hardly ever had the time to stop and look at the stars – or perhaps he didn't _make_ time for it.

He hadn't wondered at the mysteries of a starry sky since he was a child, probably. Ages ago. The universe had long since lost the enigmatic fascination of those days. It was normal; with age, there came a certain pragmatism that took some of the poetry away from things. A pity one could not lock that child-like awe safely in some drawer, from which to retrieve it, once in a while.

Had the child Jonathan Archer, on the other side of the Earth from him, stuck his nose up and wondered too? Had he joined Starfleet out of an inner desire to explore the universe, or had his career been an obligatory choice, a way to fulfil his father's dream? Yes, the latter had played an important part. Even in this, the two of them were – had been – completely different: one had fulfilled a father's dream, the other had destroyed it.

Malcolm went up to the porthole and leaned on outstretched arms, looking out.

_Bloody hell, Captain, Sir: couldn't you have taken my recommendations a bit more seriously? Did you think so little of your Security Officer?_

Grief suddenly slapped him in the face, as grief generally does: treacherously. He closed his eyes against it. Punctually, he was there.

The most disquieting aspect of Archer's visitations was that Malcolm could only see the green gaze; the man's body, or even the rest of his face, were in fog. All of Malcolm's attention was necessarily focused on that single captivating feature. Archer's eyes had always been very communicative, and now it was no different: they were telling him something, _something_… And now, all of a sudden, it was Archer's mouth, only his mouth, forming silent words, words he felt were directed at him, words he should be able to understand…

He must be going crazy.

The doors opened behind him, and Malcolm was glad beyong saying about it. Someone had come to drag him back from that limbo. He opened his eyes. In the reflection of the glass he saw Hoshi stop and look at him, and he pushed off the bulkhead, turning to greet her.

"Ensign," he croaked out, struggling to appear his normal, proper self.

"Lieutenant."

For being a linguist, Hoshi spoke as much with her body as with actual words. Malcolm watched her fidget with her hands.

"Were you looking for me?" he enquired.

Hoshi bit her lower lip. "I'm not having a lot of luck with that automated signal," she replied in that brusque tone she often used as a defensive move, in this case to cover what she obviously felt was her shame.

"Don't give up," Malcolm replied a bit too roughly. "I need you not to give up," he rephrased. Now he had sounded desperate, but he didn't care. He was: desperate to know what the damn signal had said.

Hoshi drew in a deep breath. Crossing her arms in front of her chest she said, "I also wanted to say that T'Pol was right: you do have the complete trust of this crew, Lieutenant."

Malcolm smiled a bittersweet smile; he couldn't allow himself to criticise the man in command, though, especially with a lower ranking officer.

"Thank you, Ensign; but the Admiral's doubts are understandable," he forced himself to reply.

What Hoshi thought of that, was written all over her face. She must have known, though, that it would only hurt Malcolm to discuss the matter further, for she dropped the subject and went on to say, "Admiral Blake's just given Travis the final coordinates: it appears we'll reach our destination tomorrow morning."

Malcolm blinked, disoriented. "But as far as I know there are no systems we can have reached in this short a time," he blurted out.

"That's right."

"In the middle of nowhere?"

"Not exactly, but almost. In the middle of a nebula."

* * *

As he strode purposefully towards the turbo lift, Malcolm was so absorbed in thought that he almost collided with T'Pol, who was walking in the opposite direction. Well, it saved him going all the way to the Bridge.

"Subcommander, I was coming to speak to you," he said.

"And I to you, Lieutenant. I wanted to inform you that tomorrow morning we are going to reach the rendezvous point."

"With all due respect, Ma'am: the rendezvous point for _what_?" Malcolm enquired directly. He crossed his arms tightly over his chest and narrowed his eyes; Trip's doubts about T'Pol's loyalty had briefly crossed his mind. "And especially, the rendezvous _with whom_?

T'Pol didn't flinch under his almost aggressive approach. With her usual seraphic air, she replied, "I am not authorised to reveal details of the Admiral and Ambassador's mission."

"Which means you know what it is," Malcolm reasoned aloud.

Ignoring the words, T'Pol checked the corridor up and down before continuing, "Lieutenant, I must also warn you that Commander Shran's ship is following us."

"_What_?"

"They obviously believe that they are keeping out of sensors' range, whereas because of your recent upgrades in fact they are not."

Malcolm's brain was already working overtime. "What was the Admiral's reaction?"

For the first time T'Pol faltered slightly. "He does not know," she said, blinking once. "I deemed it best not to tell him."

It took Malcolm a moment to wrap his mind around that. Those simple words led to quite a few implications, among them the fact that the Vulcan was defying Blake's authority. Was that because she was loyal to the ship, or to follow another – an all Vulcan – agenda?

Before he could speak again, T'Pol continued, "If the Andorians should witness the rendezvous, the mission would fail and a volatile situation might develop."

Maybe it was his tiredness, but Malcolm was beginning to feel a bit too vexed by the mystery surrounding this bloody mission. "I can't be expected to defend the crew if I don't know what the damn mission is," he spat out with more anger than he should have showed a superior officer. T'Pol blinked again, visibly taken aback by his outburst, and he straightened his sore back, unhappy with himself. "I apologise," he mumbled, "That was out of line."

"The rendezvous will take place inside a nebula," T'Pol said softly, choosing not to comment on his unstable temper. "It ought to go undetected. However, I thought it logical to inform you of the potential threat."

Malcolm pursed his lips. "We can't fail to inform the Admiral," he said darkly. "It would be an act of open insubordination."

"Not necessarily. The Admiral is not used to commanding a ship, and might give inappropriate orders. If we manage to disappear inside the nebula, the Admiral won't need to know."

It was stretching logic, especially for a Vulcan.

"If we can't and the Admiral learns that we kept something from him, we'll end up in a court martial."

For a long moment dark eyes and grey eyes held each other.

"For the good of the ship, I am asking you to keep the information to yourself, Lieutenant."

Malcolm's gaze darted to the deckplating. He was so damn exhausted. Now even T'Pol was asking him to put his honour and career on the line. And he was tired of people ignoring his advice. Look where it had got Archer…

"All right," he eventually relented. "But I will not keep quiet if the situation goes wrong."

T'Pol nodded. "Lieutenant," she said, as Malcolm was about to move off. "You have been under a lot of stress. I apologise if I am adding to it."

Like saying that he looked like hell.

"We all have been under stress," Malcolm said.

He was still too raw to discuss his failure. Not now, not with a Vulcan, and especially not when he couldn't close his eyes without seeing his Captain.

"Good evening, Subcommander," he croaked out, making a tactical retreat.

TBC

So... what do you make of it?


	9. Chapter 9

Here is a longer chapter, dedicated to Alelou :-)

§ 9 §

Malcolm stepped on the Bridge, in the morning, to find the complete senior staff already at their respective posts. He wasn't used to this, being generally the first one there; but he had spent another restless night, filled with haunting dreams of a certain man, and getting up in the morning, sore bones and all, had been a difficult feat. Whether it was tiredness, or madness, or PTS, something was seriously wrong with him; he wouldn't be able to go on like this for much longer.

When he had stopped by Sickbay for his morning check-up, he had been tempted to make a clean breast of it with Phlox. But the Denobulan had taken but one look at him and wanted to pull him off duty, which had instantly changed his mind. Malcolm had ended up waging a subtle war of wits with him to be allowed to work; a war he had won by a narrow margin and only on the solemn promise that he'd go back to Sickbay after the Admiral and Ambassador's mission was completed.

After greeting T'Pol and Trip with a nod, for the Admiral's benefit Malcolm pronounced the ritual, "Lieutenant Reed reporting for duty." He hoped this time it would be acknowledged without sarcasm.

Wishful thinking.

Blake shot a glance at his watch, as if to underline that fact that Malcolm was – what – a few minutes late; then, with the caustic tone which he seemed to reserve just for him, he went on to say, "As you must have been informed, Lieutenant, in about one hour we shall reach our destination. It would be nice if you could get to your post before then. I want you to keep an eye on sensors. No ship must be allowed to come close to Enterprise."

Malcolm, who, biting his tongue, was already on the way to his station, stopped in his tracks. His eyes strayed briefly to Trip, whose clenched-jaw expression tied another knot in his gut. "I'm not certain I understand, Sir," he dared, turning to the man in the Captain's chair. He knew that the words were laying him open to another thrust of the Admiral's scorn, but he had to make sure he knew exactly what the man expected of him.

As predicted, Blake didn't miss the chance.

"Do I have to ask Ensign Sato to translate it for you, Lieutenant?" he sneered. "We obviously don't speak the same language." His gaze went back to the viewscreen, as if Malcolm weren't worth looking in the eye. "When I say that no ship must be allowed near Enterprise, I mean just that. Do whatever you have to, but keep them away."

Malcolm stretched his neck. "Aye, Sir," he drew out tightly, painfully aware of Trip following him with his gaze.

"Subcommander," Blake went on, switching off the haughty tone. "Have a shuttlepod readied. Enterprise will stop just inside the nebula, and Ambassador V'Sir and I will proceed on that vessel."

"I imagine you will require a pilot and security," T'Pol asked without asking.

"No. I'll pilot myself. As for security..." Blake snorted.

Malcolm felt a rush of anger, but contained it. Let this bloody fool do whatever he wanted to. He couldn't care less if he got himself killed.

"Navigating inside a nebula can be difficult, Admiral," T'Pol graciously pointed out. "The Shuttlepod's sensors are not as sophisticated as Enterprise's."

"They'll be good enough."

The words had a finality to them that silenced everybody.

Half an hour later Malcolm knew they were in trouble. More specifically, _he_ was. Shran's ship, which had kept at the fringe of his sensors, began to speed up and close in on them. He had feared this; it was clear that sooner or later it would happen, but he had hoped against all hope that the Andorians would make their move after the Admiral and Ambassador had managed to leave on the Shuttlepod. He should have known Shran was too clever for that.

Malcolm lifted his gaze: a subtle something in T'Pol's posture confirmed what he already suspected, that she was aware of what was happening. That knot in his gut tightened a bit more: what were T'Pol's plans? His eyes shifted to Hoshi, still blessedly unaware. Not for long.

Blake stood up. "I will notify Ambassador V'Sir that we need to get ready," he said, moving to leave the Bridge.

Malcolm pursed his lips, torn between duty and... and _what_? Why should he make life difficult for himself? He was a soldier, raised to obey orders.

The question was, whose orders?

As the Admiral was climbing the few steps to get to the turbo lift, a beep sounded on Hoshi's console.

"We're being hailed," the Linguist reluctantly announced, saving Malcolm from a quick and difficult decision.

Blake turned abruptly. "By whom?"

Hoshi's eyebrows dipped in a passing frown. "The Andorian ship, Sir."

"I thought I had told you to get rid of them," Blake snapped. His reined-in fury made it all the more intimidating.

Flicking his gaze up from his monitors, Malcolm saw the Admiral dart a dark and questioning look to T'Pol and then Trip, and for a short but interminable moment, neither spoke. Then T'Pol rose from her chair.

"We endeavoured to do so," she calmly replied. "We cannot stop another vessel from choosing whatever course they desire."

Blake's mouth tightened. Having probably decided to postpone dealing with that issue, he turned to the helm.

"Ensign Mayweather, if we go to Warp 5, how long will it be before we reach the nebula?"

Travis straightened his shoulders and shot a half look over his left. "About fifteen minutes, Sir," he unenthusiastically replied.

Malcolm's fingers flew to the button that would bring the hull plating online. Shran was still a bit too far away to hurt them, but wasn't known for his patience.

"Would the Andorians be able to catch up with us before then?"

It was T'Pol who answered Blake's question, silencing Trip who looked about ready to risk his career with one of his outbursts.

"If they went at their maximum speed, they would reach the nebula in exactly twenty-three minutes."

"Which would give us eight minutes of advantage," the Admiral reasoned.

Another beep made them all look at Hoshi, who silently pleaded for the order to answer it.

"Go to Warp 5, Helmsman," Blake barked, challenging Trip to dare disapprove. Eyes eventually straying from the Engineer to Malcolm, he added, "You will do as ordered, Lieutenant. If they cannot be convinced to leave, you will keep them away any way you need to." Finally, before leaving, he instructed T'Pol, "Answer their hails. I am counting on your diplomacy, Subcommander."

The mood he left on the Bridge as he entered the turbo lift was dark to say the least.

* * *

A vein throbbed painfully on Malcolm's temple, reminding him, as if his bruises weren't enough, that the human body is a fallible machine requiring a certain amount of sleep every day. At the moment, that tiny little vein was vexing him more than his lower back, which was saying a lot.

Shran had been engaged in _unfriendly_ conversation with T'Pol for the past few minutes, and no Vulcan logic seemed able to convince him that something fishy wasn't going on. Malcolm couldn't blame the man for being suspicious, actually. The fact that T'Pol was once again sitting in Archer's chair was in itself an oddity which justified a few misgivings.

"I demand to speak to Captain Archer," the Andorian insisted.

Malcolm could almost see the wheels in his head turn, as the blue alien tried to figure out the situation.

"And I demand to know why you've been followin' us," Trip countered, butting into the discussion. "And you better find a more credible excuse than sharin' a glass of that poison of yours with the Capt'n."

Shran's eyes narrowed dangerously. "All right, Commander," he hissed in Trip's direction. "Let's lay the cards on the table, then: our intelligence tells me that you have a Vulcan Ambassador on board. And unless you can explain where you're taking him and why, I will consider Enterprise an enemy ship."

It was a loaded question, and one which – unless Malcolm was wrong – Trip wasn't able to answer. As far as he knew, only T'Pol was privy to that information.

The Bridge, indeed, fell silent. Trip shot the Science Officer an uncomfortable glance, which prompted her to speak. With her usual aplomb, she said, "It is not within your rights to ask such a question."

The tension wasn't helping Malcolm's headache. And now a wave of frustration threatened to send his blood pressure skyrocketing. He hated this unchoreographed ballet, where no one was totally certain of the others' moves. Hell, sooner or later someone would step on someone else's feet, and the result could be disastrous. Trip's doubts once again echoed in Malcolm's mind: where did T'Pol stand?

"Very well," Shran spat out. Turning away from the screen, he barked a sharp, "Bring the weapons online." Then he turned back for a terse, "Good-bye, Subcommander."

The screen went blank and T'Pol turned unwavering eyes to Malcolm. "Hull plating, Lieutenant," she said.

"Already online."

He had known things would get to this.

Trip, who had been standing behind Archer's chair, swung to the left. "I want to speak to you," he said tautly to T'Pol. "In private."

"Commander, this is hardly the time," she started, with what looked like an uneasy lift of her eyebrows. But Trip took a step towards her, towering over the Science station.

"In the ready room," he insisted.

Bending to necessity, T'Pol slowly stood up. "You have the Bridge, Lieutenant," she quietly told Malcolm. "In case of a firefight, you shall try to impair the Andorian ship without causing serious damage or fatalities."

_And what about Blake's 'keep them away at all costs'?_

Malcolm cursed inwardly as he was left in charge with such lovely and contradictory orders.

* * *

"What the hell is this mission about?" Trip snarled the moment they were alone in Archer's ready room. He was determined to remain locked in there until T'Pol had told him.

"Commander," the Vulcan began with her sanctimonious air.

Trip cut her off before she could get onto her logical high horse.

"I don't give a damn about what you can or can't tell me," he spat out. "At this point I have a right to know and you're gonna put me in the loop."

The voice that came out of his throat was unexpectedly harsh, and Trip was shocked by its dictatorial tone; it clashed with the view he had of himself as both a gentle man and gentleman. Anger racked him, which was scary; but so was the idea that T'Pol could be playing behind their backs. She was their Acting Captain, the person in whom the crew put their trust now that Archer... Well, she just couldn't double-cross them!

He watched as T'Pol drew in a deep breath and latched her hands behind her back. She opened her mouth to speak just as the ship suddenly rocked under the force of Shran's first blow, sending them groping for support. Enterprise veered sharply, as Mayweather obviously carried out evasive manoeuvres. T'Pol eyed the comm. link on Archer's desk, but didn't go to it. Regaining her balance, she looked Trip straight in the eye and said, "Ambassador V'Sir is to meet someone to discuss the acquisition of large quantities of dilithium."

Trip considered the words. "What's so mysterious about that?" he wondered tensely, as another hit sent them off-balance. "Why should Vulcans want to hide it from the Andorians?"

"Vulcans do not have a habit of letting the Andorians know about their deals," T'Pol replied. At Trip's long-suffering look, taking another steadying breath, she expounded, "As I mentioned, they are large quantities: the Andorians might suspect that we are preparing an attack. They have a tendency to consider everything we do as an act of war against them."

"And what about Starfleet?" Trip demanded. "What's in it for them?"

"I understand they agreed to carry the Ambassador to the rendezvous in exchange for more autonomy. The High Command was hoping that a Starfleet vessel would not alert the Imperial Guard. They constantly monitor the Vulcan fleet."

Was she being truthful? Studying T'Pol's face, Trip pondered the diplomatic intricacies at play. He hated politics. It was difficult to understand if the subtle signs that had appeared on her visage, signs that on any human face would probably mean nothing, had any significance. Did that quick blink of the eyes indicate tension? What emotion did the twitch of her mouth betray?

Damn if he knew.

"We've got to tell Shran," he finally said. "We cannot endanger eighty-two lives because the Vulcan High Command can't blow their noses without having to do it in a stealthy way." He passed a nervous hand through his hair. "Hell, all that mystery is the best way to arouse the Andorians' suspicions!"

The unmistakable sound of their own phase cannons firing silenced them for a moment. T'Pol's gaze went once again to the comm. link, and once again she refrained from going to it. There was nothing they could do, anyway. Malcolm knew his stuff, and they could be sure that, with Travis's help, he'd do his best to keep them alive and well.

"I am still a member of the High Command," T'Pol said, and this time the drop in her voice was a definite indication of emotional involvement. "Bound to obey their orders. I was told to offer assistance."

Trip felt a stab through his heart. "Your first duty is to this crew! The Capt'n's crew! He trusted you!" The grief that he'd endeavoured to keep hidden since Archer's disappearance was suddenly out in the open.

T'Pol looked confused. "I was not going to betray that trust, Commander," she replied with a slight frown.

Their eyes were locked for a long moment. It was the comm. beeping that eventually broke the silent confrontation. T'Pol went to it and pressed the link open.

"We're about to enter the nebula," Hoshi's voice informed them, without preamble.

"We'll be right there, Ensign."

With a last silent glance at Trip, she preceded him to the door.

* * *

The moment they stepped onto the Bridge, Malcolm's gaze darted from the tactical console to acknowledge their return. It skimmed over T'Pol and went directly to him – Trip – heavy with concern. Trip was sure he'd read a silent question in it, but the ongoing fight absorbed the Armoury Officer again, and his eyes dropped back to the instruments in front of him.

"Hull plating down to seventy-five percent," Malcolm said, in his tense-but-controlled voice. He shook his head, without losing sight of his diagrams. "I have disabled one of their cannons and damaged a nacelle; it has slowed them down a little, but honestly we don't stand much of a chance of--- Incoming!"

Another hit shook them.

T'Pol gripped the back of Archer's chair; then pulled to a rod-straight stance. "How long before we are inside?" she asked, watching the nebula looming on the viewscreen.

It was Travis who answered. "Two minutes," he said. "The Admiral and Ambassador are already in the Shuttlepod."

"Enter the nebula and go to impulse," she instructed in a determined tone. To Hoshi, she quietly added, "The moment the Shuttlepod has launched, hail Commander Shran."

* * *

Being inside a nebula – Malcolm mused – was like being in a state of semi-consciousness. And he knew that sensation quite well: senses – and sensors – not quite as sharp, a sea of fog. He would have heaved a sigh of relief, because that meant that also the Andorians' targeting sensors would not be functional, except for the fact that he knew Shran wouldn't give up his hunt so easily. And sooner or later they would have to come out of hiding.

Focusing back on his readings, he watched a blip move across his screen. "The Shuttlepod has launched," he announced, following the smaller vessel's course. In a few minutes the pod would undoubtedly disappear, lost in the murky cloud; a nasty part of him almost wished for good.

T'Pol nodded to Hoshi, who immediately set to her given task.

"Are you surrendering, Subcommander?" Shran taunted, the moment he came through. "Just when things were getting interesting."

There was no humour in his voice; more like the ill-concealed irritation of someone who doesn't want to admit that he's been had. At least for the moment – Malcolm thought grimly.

"I have hailed to appeal to your good sense, Commander," T'Pol said. "While I cannot reveal the nature of our mission, I can assure you it has nothing to do with the hostility between our two species."

"Dare you deny the presence of a Vulcan Ambassador on Enterprise?" Shran challenged.

Malcolm saw Trip dart T'Pol a loaded glance.

"Enterprise is carrying Ambassador V'Sir," she grudgingly admitted. "But I repeat, this mission does not concern Andoria."

"Liar!" Shran snarled.

"The Andorian vessel is entering the nebula as well," Malcolm quietly informed their Acting Captain. "Same point of entry as Enterprise."

"You're a damned Vulcan liar!"

Shran's roar filled the Bridge, making everybody uneasy save the person to whom the insult was addressed. T'Pol simply raised her eyebrows. There was no doubt that the two races were as different as black and white; or better, fire and ice. The odd thing, come to think of it, was that the hot planet was home to a cold race; and icy Andoria to a hot one.

Trip's reaction to the words was quite a bit more dramatic: Malcolm watched the Commander's face, which had already been drawn, visibly pale.

"Explain yourself," the Engineer demanded.

Shran's antennae curled forward, and his eyes flashed daggers. "According to our intelligence, a defector of the Imperial Guard, a shameful traitor of our race, is in this area of space. He's in possession of important military secrets." The blue alien snorted. "And isn't it a coincidence that a Vulcan Ambassador should be here too!"

T'Pol's eyes widened. For the first time since he had known her, Malcolm saw doubt show on her face.

"That is not why the Ambassador is here," she said, but the self-assurance was gone from her voice. It was almost painful to watch the unusual change in her.

Shran must have noticed too, because his tone was more restrained as he said, "Think about it, Subcommander. An Andorian defector with military secrets to sell and a Vulcan Ambassador in the same stretch of universe: can you really believe it is a coincidence?"

"We'll find out," Trip butted in, through a clenched jaw. "Hoshi," he said meaningfully. As soon as the transmission had been cut, he went on, "We'll take the other pod and follow V'Sir and the Admiral."

A flicker of disquiet crossed T'Pol's gaze. "That would contravene my orders," she said.

Trip took a step and faced her fully. "Provided you're telling the truth, you've got to decide whether you want to be a pawn in the hands of the High Command, or the Acting Captain of this ship." As silence stretched, he added meaningfully, "By doing nothin', you'll endanger this crew. Besides, if I were you I'd be dyin' to find out whether I'd been deceived."

With a silent nod, T'Pol ordered Hoshi to establish communication again.

"You were at P'Jem, Subcommander," Shran butted in darkly, looking none too pleased about the brief interruption. "You have the chance to help uncover another lie."

T'Pol looked at him pensively for a moment longer; then turned to her right. "Lieutenant Reed," she said, once again her confident self. "Have Shutlepod Two prepared and meet the Commander and me in the launchbay in---"

"Why don't we take my ship?" Shran cut her off. "It's equipped with more powerful sensors, and inside this nebula we'll need that. Send me your coordinates and I'll pick you up."

At least this last request had confirmed that the nebula was providing a good cover. Malcolm treasured the notion, especially if he was going to be off Enterprise. He didn't trust Shran, the man was too volatile.

At long last T'Pol nodded her agreement. Hoshi immediately sent the information to the Andorian.

"One last question, Subcommander," the blue alien said, narrowing his fiery gaze. "What happened to Captain Archer?"

Malcolm bit his lip.

"He... had an accident," T'Pol vaguely replied. "He's not here at the moment."

_At the moment_. It was – what – the second time T'Pol had used those words. Almost as if the Captain was simply on sick leave. Malcolm found it strangely comforting. _Idiot_ – he cursed himself – _he's not coming back, other than in your deranged subconscious_.

Shran considered the words, but didn't comment. Glancing at Enterprise's coordinates, which he had received, he said, "See you in fifteen minutes."

As soon as the communication was cut, T'Pol spoke. "Commander, Lieutenant," she summoned. "Mister Mayweather, you have the Bridge."

"I'd strongly suggest Enterprise doesn't remain in the same position while we are away, Ma'am," Malcolm urged. Better safe than sorry. "We can rendezvous at a different set of coordinates."

"Agreed," T'Pol said, to Malcolm's relief. "Arrange for it, Lieutenant."

As he slid out of his seat to join his Superior Officers at the turbo lift, Malcolm tried to hide, even to himself, how unready he felt for an away mission. He'd need to be alert, when since the accident he'd hardly caught much sleep. As he made a mental note of what weapons to take, a part of his mind couldn't help wondering what other unwelcomed surprises could there be in store for them.

TBC

Looking forward to your reviews!


	10. Chapter 10

And here is the next chapter.

§ 11 §

What was it that Forrest had told him that time? Ah – yes. That Vulcans wouldn't look half as devious if, at least once in a while, they let themselves smile.

As he unobtrusively eyed V'Sir, to his right, Blake couldn't agree more. And their Pointy-Eared allies also needed a bit of work on their social skills, he ranted silently. A man in a coma would be better company.

"I shall take the helm," the Ambassador suddenly said, breaking the silence for the first time in minutes.

Blake frowned. "What, you don't trust my piloting, Ambassador?" he threw him in jest.

"I simply have new coordinates," V'Sir very formally replied.

Of course – no smiles, no sense of humour. Blake repressed a sigh; then his eyebrows met in a new frown, this one of puzzlement. "New coordinates? When did you get them?" he guardedly enquired.

"That doesn't concern you, Admiral."

Difficult as it was, Blake bit back the nasty retort that was already on his lips. Oh, if only he could allow himself the pleasure of telling this arrogant man off! But that would hardly serve Starfleet's cause, and if this mission brought them more freedom from the High Command's irksome supervision, he might just get the chance. Patience.

"Why don't you just give the coordinates to me?" he asked instead, striving to keep a neutral tone.

The reply came in the flat voice that smacked, as usual, of condescension. "It will be easier if you let me pilot."

"This is still a Starfleet vessel," Blake countered a touch more darkly.

V'Sir turned to him, probably to let him see the resolve in his piercing eyes.

"I am a certified pilot;" he said. "Not only that: I can fly a Vulcan ship, which is – I can assure you – more complex than this Shuttle." Before Blake could say something to that, he added firmly, "I must remind you, Admiral, that there was no need for you to come with me on this mission. Earth only had to provide a ship. The High Command was kind enough to comply with Starfleet Command's request to have you on board, but I am under no obligations to take orders from you."

That pretty well put an end to the issue. Blake shot the sinewy Vulcan a look in which, for once, he was unable to hide his raw feelings; then moved out of the seat and let him take the helm.

Immediately V'Sir inputted new coordinates, and the pod veered.

* * *

"With all due respect, Subcommander, you are taking the three highest ranking officers off Enterprise," Malcolm wearily pointed out, once they were in the turbo lift. He rubbed his eyes, trying not to keep them closed more than a fleeting instant, lest he had to face Archer's ghost again. He could do without him, at the moment. Correction – _always_.

"I am aware of that, Lieutenant."

Something about T'Pol belied her calm exterior, but Malcolm could not put a finger on what it was.

"Commander Tucker appears to have doubts about my conduct," the Vulcan went on, giving Trip one hell of a raised-eyebrow look. "Therefore it is important that he comes with us and witnesses all that will pass."

Her mouth. Yes, it was the rigid set of her mouth that betrayed her feelings.

Trip's face twitched in a slight wince. "Well, you have to admit that..." he stammered. Passing a hand over his face, he re-emerged looking somewhat contrite. "Look, I'm sorry, but---"

"I shall meet you both at the docking port," T'Pol uncharacteristically cut him off. As soon as the lift came to a halt and the doors opened, she exited and hurried away, leaving the two of them frozen in place.

"I believe you have pissed her off," Malcolm commented under his breath as soon as he was sure that those sensitive Vulcan ears were distant enough.

He gave a low, mirthless chuckle meant as a sarcastic commentary to their lovely situation, and – bang, Archer suddenly choked it out of his throat. The man's face – now Malcolm could see all of it – was pale and hollow; his eyes circled.

It was enough to make him gasp for air.

"Malcolm!"

Something came to clasp his arms painfully. As if it had been made of wax, Archer's face slowly melted away. Malcolm found himself staring wide-eyed into Trip's worried blue gaze.

"Malcolm! What's wrong?"

Trip gave him a good shake, which dispelled the last remnants of his confusion.

"I think I'm going insane," Malcolm breathed out.

Falling back against the wall of the lift, he swallowed hard against the admission, which had come out unintentionally. But he needed to let some of it in the open, or…

"What?" Trip slowly released him, worry turning into puzzlement. "What the heck do you mean?"

This wasn't the time for psychotherapy. Malcolm pinched the bridge of his nose. "Nothing, I---"

"That wasn't nothin', damn it!" Trip broke in, sounding angry as much as alarmed. "You're gonna tell me what's wrong, and now; or help me God I'll march you to Sickbay and leave you there to rot." Darkly, he added, "Can't promise I won't end up doin' it regardless, the way you look."

Brilliant. Malcolm took a steadying breath. He had to play this right.

"Trip, I'm…" He closed his eyes; then hurried to blink them open. "I'm tired. I'm sure it's only that. I haven't slept well, or even much, after we left that planet. I… I keep seeing the Captain."

There, it was out, though it was the truth in disguise, for the way it had sounded Trip would undoubtedly take it for something else. _I keep seeing the Captain every time I as much as blink my eyes closed; and now even when I don't_ would have been more like it.

Trip's shoulders sagged. "Yeah, I've dreamt of him too," he indeed said, softly; painfully. Raising assessing eyes, he added, "But you blanked out there. You sure you feel up to comin' with us?"

"I'll be okay. I need to look after the two of you," Malcolm replied with a pale smile that Trip didn't mirror.

It wasn't a joke, actually. Reluctant as he was about leaving Enterprise without her three highest-ranking officers, he would be equally concerned if he had to remain on board while Trip and T'Pol went with Shran.

They looked at each other for a long, silent moment. Malcolm's conscience was nagging him to confess, and he knew he would feel better if he did; but it was not the time. Later. After this cursed mission was over. Then he would tell Trip everything; and even Phlox, perhaps.

"Let's go; or we'll make Shran wait, and he doesn't strike me as the patient type," Malcolm finally said, summoning enough willpower to make the words sound more or less convincing.

Trip's blue eyes didn't seem persuaded; with a sigh that was older than his age, the Engineer preceded him out of the lift.

* * *

The mood inside the Andorian ship was one of unspoken mistrust. Shran kept looking at T'Pol as if she might be about to produce a phase rifle and kill them all in a wrath. Malcolm, on the other hand, made no effort to hide his own wariness. The blue aliens hadn't exactly made a good impression on him at P'Jem; and first impacts have a tendency to influence one's judgement of people.

The interior of the ship was quite a bit more spacious than Malcolm had expected. It was also more pleasant than he had anticipated, both in design and colour-scheme. Pastel blue, which had always made him sick in doctors' waiting rooms, was unexpectedly uplifting here, and a welcome change from their own depressing grey bulkheads.

Malcolm let himself get distracted for a moment by the look on Trip's face, for the man did nothing to hide his curiosity. The Engineer's passion for alien technology – especially engines, but not only – was well-known.

"How fast is she?" Trip asked Shran, with a hopeful glance.

The antennae on the Andorian's head twitched. "Commander," he replied, almost in amusement. "This is a vessel of the Imperial Guard. I cannot reveal that to you."

Shran turned to his pilot. "Anything on sensors?"

"No, Sir," the man replied. "This nebula is quite dense. Sensors aren't very efficient inside it."

"It isn't of great importance."

They all turned to the owner of the voice who had spoken.

T'Pol gave Shran a steady look; then bestowed one on Trip. "I have the right coordinates."

Shran narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "Do you, Subcommander?"

"I had asked the Ambassador for them; I thought it was wise to have them, in case something went wrong and we had to rendezvous with the shuttlepod before time."

She tilted her head to one side, as if to say, "Do you believe me now?"

"What are you waiting for, Vulcan," Shran barked. "Give them to the helm!"

Malcolm, who was watching the exchange with a certain apprehension, saw Trip's face harden.

"Watch your temper, _Andorian_," the Engineer snapped. "We're supposed to be on the same side, here."

A battle of glares later, T'Pol had given the coordinates to the pilot, and they were on the right course.

TBC


	11. Chapter 11

This is another long one. Action ahead!

§ 11 §

They had docked with a small ship. Blake hadn't recognised her configuration; but then again, he was no expert.

V'Sir had wanted to leave him on the Shuttlepod while he himself boarded the vessel, but Blake had followed him moments later, regardless of the man's desires. After all, he wasn't going to take orders either. He only took them from Starfleet, and they had told him to learn as much as he could about this deal. Dilithium was an expensive commodity; you never knew when a good contact might come in useful.

Blake eventually had found the Vulcan and the other person on the Bridge of that one-man vessel; and now, in the surprised silence that had fallen, he looked onto the scene and began to acknowledge some strange vibes. It was the first time he set eyes on an Andorian in the flesh, but it wasn't the blue of his face or the antennae on his head that left him dumbstruck. Vulcans had asked for an Earth vessel just so that their sworn enemies wouldn't get alerted to this mission, and the person V'Sir had come to meet was one of them? Something wasn't adding up, here.

"What does this mean?" Blake demanded. All the – albeit feigned – friendliness was gone from his voice, but he couldn't care less.

If roles had been reversed and V'Sir had butted in unexpectedly on a private business meeting, Blake knew that he'd have told the man off rather brutally; as it was, the Vulcan only gave him a long, unreadable look. He seemed to be weighing his options, which did nothing to dispel Blake's suspicions that something shady was going on.

"Look, I don't have the luxury of being able to stay in one place for longer than strictly necessary," the Andorian spat impatiently when silence, once again, stretched. "They're always on my trail." His eyes shifted between V'Sir and Blake, while his antennae twisted nervously forward as if to sense danger. "Let's get on with it, or else split up and each go on our own way."

Blake frowned, beginning to imagine what this could be about. Things were starting to fall into place; like the presence of that Andorian ship in this stretch of space, for example.

V'Sir shot his _contact_ a silencing look; then turned to Blake. "Admiral," he said, a slightly shrill edge marring his still composed voice. "This does not concern Starfleet. I must ask you to step out of this room and allow me to continue in privacy."

"Continue what, exactly?" Blake insisted. He studied the Andorian: he was tense and fidgety. "Somehow I don't think this man has anything to do with significant stores of dilithium."

The blue man's brow fleetingly creased, unconsciously confirming the words. A surge of hot anger swelled within Blake. Not so much because of what he had discovered, but because they'd been taken advantage of.

"You lied to us," he snarled to V'Sir. "You got Starfleet to help you carry out your deceitful agenda."

The Ambassador seemed unimpressed. "Starfleet should not be concerned with the nature of our business," he calmly replied. "They will get what they were promised, for granting us the use of their ship."

"You treated us like your damn puppets!"

Couldn't this bastard, for all his logic, see the difference?

"Hey," the Andorian shouted, commanding attention. His eyes were flashing daggers. "I don't care about your squabbles." Jerking his chin in Blake's direction, he urged, "Get him out of here and let's get on with it, or the deal is off."

* * *

"No trace of the Human pod," the Andorian helmsman said.

Shran's jaw clenched.

"These are the coordinates I was given," T'Pol murmured, in a more hesitant voice than they were accustomed to.

She seemed to have lost her sure footing again, and Malcolm shot a wary glance at Trip. The Engineer seemed uncertain too. This was a totally messed-up situation, and a dangerously volatile one. Malcolm unobtrusively moved into a position where he had his back covered and could keep everyone on the Bridge under watch.

"Why should I believe you?" the Andorian Commander spat out. He turned to Trip. "See what we mean, when we say that Vulcans are liars?"

"I haven't lied," T'Pol said, looking Trip straight in the eye.

Shran banged a hand on the closest console. "If you haven't, then your Ambassador has! He's deceived all of you, even his own kind!" A feral grin that had no mirth in it whatsoever appeared on his face. "Do you believe me now?" he asked T'Pol sarcastically, intentionally echoing her words from before.

"I'm picking up a faint trail," the helmsman suddenly said, attracting everyone's attention. "It's the Human Shuttlepod."

"How far?" Shran demanded, taking a step closer to his man.

Trip and T'Pol joined him; Malcolm remained in his strategic position.

"Not too far. If we speed up a bit, about fifteen minutes away."

Shran narrowed his eyes and the foretaste of victory appeared on his face. "Set a course," he said, gaze locked on the viewscreen.

* * *

"I'm not leaving," Blake stated firmly. He wasn't going to be booted out of any place, especially in this uncouth way.

V'Sir opened his mouth to say something, no doubt something irritatingly calm and logical, but a soft beep interrupted him.

"A vessel," the Andorian muttered through a clenched jaw. The words were followed by what was clearly a curse the UT was not able to translate. "Andorian."

That was one time Blake didn't mind their former pursuers making an appearance. A rather delicate situation would surely ensue, but the thought that the Andorians should catch this worm of a defector red-handed gave him a sutbtle pleasure. He had always hated cowardice and duplicity. The smile that was budding on his face, though, fell when the blue alien turned to them with a phase pistol in his hand.

"What is the meaning of this?" V'Sir asked, eyeing the weapon.

"Just shut up and get into that corner," the Andorian barked. "You too," he added, gesturing Blake. "You may just be what will help me get away with all this."

"I seriously doubt you can trade us for your freedom," V'Sir commented, seeming to purposefully tinge the words with soft sarcasm. "Your species certainly doesn't value a Vulcan life – or a Human one, for that matter – enough for us to become exchange goods."

"Shut up," the Andorian spat out. "Our deal is over."

* * *

"Surrender, Lieutenant, and face your rightful punishment, or we'll destroy your vessel," Shran snarled.

If looks could kill, the Andorian defector would have been a little pile of ashes by now. Hatred – no, more like _despise_ – wasn't only in Shran's eyes, but exuded from every cell of his body. In a way Malcolm could identify with it; there were few sins in his personal list that could compare to being a traitor.

"Punishment for what, Commander?" was the equally outraged reply. "For capturing an enemy of our race?" The man on the viewscreen grabbed V'Sir by a sleeve and jerked him forward, while he remained with his back safely against a bulkhead and his phaser steadily trained on his prisoners. "I thought the Imperial Guard rewarded good soldiers, not punished them! I have captured none less than a Vulcan Ambassador; I bet there is plenty of information we can get out of him."

"_What_?"

Shran looked ready to burst.

"Ambassador," T'Pol cut in, taking advantage of the stunned paused that ensued. "I expect you will explain your change of coordinates and this..." – she raised her eyebrows, tilting her head but in a far from amused expression – "peculiar choice of contact for a business interaction."

If he was surprised to see T'Pol on the Andorian ship, V'Sir didn't let it through.

"I respond to the High Command," he replied, politely if a bit tersely. "There is nothing I can tell you."

"He's lied to us, to you," Blake suddenly put in. "And that man," he added, pointing with a straight arm to their captor, "is a traitor. Don't believe a word of---"

He couldn't finish, for the Andorian hit him in the face with the butt of his phaser, and Blake bent over, cradling his nose.

"It's this idiot you must not listen to," the blue Lieutenant spat out. "I fooled the High Command and lured the Ambassador into a trap." He turned to Shran. "My defection was all a trick to serve our cause, Commander. I lost a brother at the hands of Vulcans, and I swore to myself I would make them pay."

The words had been spoken with self-assurance. Another pensive silence followed. Malcolm, who was trying to keep everybody under control, watched as different reactions appeared on people's faces. Shran was obviously weighing the words very carefully in his mind; the hard set of Trip's jaw conveyed his contempt of the man, regardless of what exactly he had done – hell, of the entire situation; as for T'Pol... she was always difficult to read, but Malcolm could sense that she wasn't quite ready to buy the Andorian's story, while it was clear that she was deeply upset by the role of the High Command in this.

"Dock with us; it's easier to talk face to face," Shran challenged, narrowing his eyes.

The alleged defector's antennae tensed. "I'm afraid that's impossible. That fool," – he jerked his chin in the direction of the Admiral, who had a hand over his bloodied nose and mouth and looked stunned – "botched the docking manoeuvre. The Earth Shuttle is stuck to my only docking port."

"I can take a look at it," Trip told Shran on the side. "I take it you have a transporter?"

Sharn's eyes darted to the Engineer, to his left, while his body kept perfectly still. "We'll transport the three of you out," he told the Andorian Lieutenant firmly.

The man swallowed. But that was the only visible sign of possible nervousness; his voice was as confident as ever as he replied, "Looking forward to it, Commander."

The comm. link was cut. Shran turned to give the order, but Trip forestalled him.

"Transport me into our Shuttle. I can tell you right away if that man is tellin' the truth, at least about the docking port. And if he is, I need to do something about it, anyway."

"You're going to miss all the fun, Commander," Shran replied, with a wicked grin.

Malcolm heaved an inner sigh. _Fun_! For the first time he wished he was an Engineer and not a Security Officer. He was in a ship full of hot-blooded aliens. Well, at least if Trip transported out that would be one of them out of immediate danger, one life less to protect; though he'd really have to dig deep inside himself to risk anything to protect the Admiral's.

With a sharp nod Shran gave his agreement.

Trip took a step towards Malcolm. "Will you be okay if I leave for a while?" he asked under his breath, with feigned nonchalance.

Malcolm felt T'Pol's eyes on him, and cursed the Vulcan hearing. "I'll be fine," he replied a bit stiffly.

At least he hoped so.

* * *

Blake had almost certainly collected a broken nose. It was swollen and already a suspicious colour, and its owner was obviously in pain. But to his credit the Admiral was standing straight and making no fuss about it, oblivious even to his bloodied face and front.

Malcolm met the man's veiled gaze, aware that his own eyes, instead, were as grey as the Atlantic in winter on a cloudy day, and his voice just as cold as he said, "The Admiral could use medical attention, Commander."

Shran – he might have known – wasn't any more concerned or soft-hearted about it. Indeed a broken nose was probably what parents on Andoria gave their children when they brought home a bad mark.

"He'll have to wait," was his terse reply. "I want to hear his version of the facts."

"I'll be fine," Blake mumbled, in a choked and nasal voice, adding for good measure the dismissive wave of one hand.

They had moved to a more private place than the Bridge – something like Shran's equivalent of Archer's ready room; just more spacious and without those annoying low bulkheads the Captain had had to---

Malcolm froze as Archer's ghost flashed in his mind, haunting him once more. Pale. _Paler_; he was getting paler. They must do something to help him, damnit!

Do something? What in the bloody hell was he thinking? The man was beyond help.

"Lieutenant?"

T'Pol's soft voice was barely a whisper, intended for his ears only; it made him aware of the fact that he had shut his eyes. Malcolm blinked them open and filled his lungs, as if to air a stale room.

"It's nothing," he murmured back. _I'm just on the brink of madness, that's all_.

Blessedly, Shran and the others remained unaware of their exchange. The Andorian Commander stood facing the 'accused', dark eyes boring into him. Blake and V'Sir were too taken by the circumstances to spare one Malcolm Reed more than the fleeting look they had upon being shown into the room.

"Lieutenant Gorsen Kovas," Shran recited, eyes darting to notes on a padd. in his hands. "Served in the Imperial Guard for eight years. Recently joined the intelligence. In possess of confidential military information. Impeccable record. Did indeed lose a brother, killed in a terrorist attack whose perpetrators were never found; they are thought to have been Vulcans." His gaze lifted again and narrowed, in the effort of piercing through the other man's front as he went on more darkly, "Stole a shuttlepod and disappeared six weeks ago."

There was a beat of silence.

"Vulcans are not terrorists," a composed voice said.

Shran's eyes shifted to V'Sir and filled with contempt. "Really?" he snarled. "You have proven once again how deceitful you Vulcans are. You lied to the Pinkskins and even to your own kind!" He raised a hand to point vaguely in T'Pol's direction. "You have no honour."

With the last words his voice had dropped to a low grumble in which scorn quivered, but V'Sir seemed unimpressed. He raised his eyebrows and replied, the hint of criticism in his voice appearing even fainter in comparison to Shran's vibrant emotion, "You are in no position to pass judgement, Commander. If your species were not so unpredictable and aggressive, the High Command would not need to take steps in order to protect Vulcan's interests and try to anticipate your offensive moves."

It was an indirect admission of guilt; but – logic being the essence of Vulcan nature – Malcolm was sure the Ambassador had been fully aware of it. T'Pol tensed beside him, and he felt sorry for her. As if it weren't difficult enough for her to serve on a ship full of Humans, with – let's face it – their prejudices and suspicions, this was the second time, after P'Jem, she had chanced upon the High Command's far-from crystal-clear methods in keeping an eye on their sworn enemies.

Shran slowly turned to give her a meaningful glare, one that said 'I told you so', which she silently acknowledged. Empathy, in Malcolm's chest, was instantly dispelled by a surge of irritation towards the Andorian. It was despicable he should rub salt in the wound.

"It is clear the Subcommander knew nothing about this deception, Commander," he couldn't refrain from hissing. "She was told the Ambassador was on an entirely different mission; one that had nothing to do with classified military information. I believe you owe her an apology."

Shran's antennae pointed to him, as if they could penetrate his mind.

"Ah, our gallant Lieutenant Reed," Shran said with a budding smile that held no mirth. "The man who falls off his bed at night." His eyes roamed over Malcolm's still slightly bruised face. "You don't look very healthy these days, Lieutenant."

Malcolm clenched his jaw, holding Shran's scrutiny.

"But you're right," the Andorian gruffly admitted. His eyes shifted reluctantly to T'Pol. "It seems that I was wrong about you. I apologise."

"Thank you," T'Pol said quietly.

It was then that Trip decided to page them. T'Pol's communicator chirped, and she hurried to flick it open, looking relieved that it gave her something to do.

"Yup, the docking port's jammed alright," Trip's voice came through. "The man told the truth. I think I can fix it without too much trouble, though."

"Understood," T'Pol replied. "Keep us informed, Commander."

As soon as the communication was cut, Blake spoke up. "You didn't need to send Commander Tucker over to the Shuttlepod to know that," he muttered. "I could have told you myself." He shot a fiery look at Shran. "But your Lieutenant is still a traitor and an impostor. Arrest him and let us go."

Shran's eyes flashed as well. "Easy, Admiral. You cannot call a member of the Imperial Guard a traitor and an impostor without being certain of your accusations."

"I know what I'm saying," Blake retorted. "I was on that ship, remember? He was nervous and in a hurry; he said he couldn't stay in one place for long because _they_ were always on his trail."

A self-assured laugh rang out. "That's what I wanted you both to believe," Kovas said. "I wouldn't be a very credible defector otherwise, would I?"

He took an aggressive step towards Blake, as if to threaten him into silence, and Malcolm tensed, pushing off the wall he'd been leaning on and unfolding his arms.

Blake stood his ground unflinchingly. "What about when you pointed a pistol at us and said we had just turned into what might help you _get away with it_, Lieutenant?" he challenged. "Care to explain that to your Commander?"

"I never said those words," Kovas countered; but if one listened carefully his voice had acquired a very slight edge to it.

Malcolm's gaze trailed between Shran's mobile features and the man's. There was a silent battle going on between them, one that might be won or lost over such insignificant things as a minor change of tone. Loyalty or betrayal? He was inclined to think the latter, but if anyone might do such a crazy thing as pretending to defect in order to capture an enemy that would be an Andorian.

"I never said those words," the man roared again.

Yes; the bloke's self-assurance had definitely been chipped. And the angrier he got, the less credible he appeared.

Blake smiled. It was a faint smile – with a broken nose it couldn't be a full one; but it was a smile of victory. "I have a recording of the entire conversation, Commander," he told Shran, reaching to a small pin on the neck of his uniform. "Care to listen?"

What happened next should have been predictable. Still, it took everybody by surprise. With the growl of a wounded animal Kovas pounced forward, a blade suddenly flashing in his hands. Malcolm reacted instinctively; for if he'd had the time to think he would have undoubtedly turned down the unhealthy idea of risking his life – or even another bruise – for someone who 'might as well do without security'. As it was, he found himself grappling with Kovas on the floor, something for which his aching body was not grateful.

When it was over, moments later, Shran and T'Pol had the traitor immobilised, each on one side of him; and Malcolm was cradling a bleeding arm.

"Traitor," Shran said darkly. "You have brought dishonour to the Imperial Guard."

"The Imperial Guard!" Kovas spat on the floor. "They thought it was more important to pursue what they believed were terrorists – people who were simply fleeing in terror – than assist the wounded. Left my brother and six other young men to bleed to death while they went on a wild goose chase!"

Two security men came into the room, and Shran and T'Pol relinquished the defector to them, the Andorian Commander with a hard shove of contempt. "Take him to the brig," he said, turning away from what was obviously a despicable sight.

"Lieutenant, you are bleeding."

T'Pol had immediately come to kneel near Malcolm, trying to assess the cut on his upper left arm, which he was pressing with his right hand.

"It's nothing," Malcolm said. But it was all getting to be a bit too much to handle. He tried to stand up and slipped, dizziness taking over.

He fought to stay with it, but knew it was a lost battle when dark spots began to dance in front of his eyes.

The thing he hated most, as darkness engulfed him, was the idea that he was fainting in front of the bloody Admiral.

TBC

Well, Malcolm had been out of Sickbay for - what - already a week! :-)

Looking forward to your comments! BTW, after the results of my last poll, I have a new one with a selection of Special Months. Go vote!


	12. Chapter 12

Am I publishing chapters too fast? Let me know... :-)

§ 12 §

Captain Archer needed help. There were no two ways about it. Malcolm felt anguish tear at his insides as he took in the deathly pallor of the man's face, the green of his usually lively eyes dull; like the eyes of a…

There was a moan, and he couldn't tell whether it had been his own or the Captain's.

A hand on his chest, shaking him gently, ferried him into consciousness. He opened his eyes to alien surroundings, but he knew right away that he was in a medical environment. This must be the Andorian ship's sickbay.

Things came back to him fast. The knife, the grappling... He glanced at his left arm; the sleeve of his uniform had been cut off, and the injury had been dressed. There was no pain; at least while he kept still.

"I can't leave ya alone one moment, that you immediately get into a fight," a soft but well-known voice beside him teased.

Malcolm turned to his right. Trip's smile was beginning to fall away as the man assessed him, but Malcolm couldn't find it in himself to fake the famous Reed 'I am fine' expression. The distress of seeing Archer in his subconscious – or whatever it was – was still lingering. He had always been a pragmatic person; ghost stories had left him cold even as a child. It struck him now, unexpectedly, that if these... _visions_ kept haunting him and affected him so deeply, they must have a meaning. Post Traumatic Syndrome might have nothing to do with it. Good heavens, if that was true, they might have wasted far too much precious time.

"Hey, you with me?"

Trip was starting to look around for a medic. That was not what Malcolm wanted. He needed to speak to him in privacy; he had to stop him. The urgent words that came out of his mouth certainly did, and fast.

"I believe Captain Archer is still alive."

Trip jerked back to him with a frown. It wasn't long before emotion flitted across his features.

"Malcolm, you've had a tough time with it," he said, in the gentle tone of someone who's speaking to a poor imbecile, or a poor griever, or a poor something.

The Engineer swallowed hard against the knot that had obviously formed in his throat, and Malcolm struggled to keep calm. He felt like grabbing Trip by an arm and shouting, 'I'm telling you, he's still alive!' but he had very clear in his mind the recent example of that defector; how he had lost credibility and his bet by losing his cool.

"You told me you thought you were goin' insane," Trip continued, still in a careful voice. "When we get back to Enterprise I think you'd better have a talk with Phlox."

"Trip..."

There was a muffled cry of pain, and as he gathered his thoughts Malcolm let his eyes stray behind his friend. Sat on a biobed, fortunately at quite a distance, was the Admiral; an Andorian Doctor was setting his nose. Let him suffer a bit – he thought, finding within himself no empathy for the arrogant man – it might do him some good.

Refocusing on Trip, Malcolm heaved a deep breath. "I know this sounds crazy," he said, in a deep, quiet tone. "But I really do think the Captain is still alive." Trip's blue eyes were discouragingly wary, but Malcolm went on, his voice getting more animated despite his best intentions. "I keep seeing him, Trip. Not only in my nightmares. Sometimes his face just pops into my mind, as if he were there before me. It's as if he wanted to tell me something." Wincing, he concluded with a troubled frown, "It used to be only his eyes; now I can see all of his face, and it doesn't look good."

Trip's guarded gaze bore into him, and Malcolm held it, hiding nothing. He was too tired for silly tactics; besides, it was too late to keep anything back.

"Look," the Engineer breathed out, at length. "To me this sounds like---"

"It's not PTS," Malcolm cut him off sharply. He had come out a bit strong, so he rephrased. "I don't think it is. I know, I know," he tiredly forestalled. "People with PTS tend to deny it. But... it's..." Frustration took over. "Look, I just know what I feel," he insisted. "I feel the Captain is still alive, and reaching out to me. And I'm here, doing nothing, damn it. When every hour could count."

Trip grimaced. "It's been almost a week, Malcolm. Even if he… What are the chances…?" He blew out a slow breath. "You know that there is nothing I'd like more than for the Capt'n to be alive," he said painfully.

"Then, please, believe me," Malcolm desperately pleaded. "I need someone to believe me, and I doubt that someone can be T'Pol."

Trip rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Yeah, she's too…"

When Trip didn't continue, Malcolm added, "Logical?"

Trip's eyes flashed, amusement temporarily winning over worry. "I was going to say something a bit less polite, but yes, 'logical'." He pursed his lips. "What do you suggest I do?"

The sound of steps approaching interrupted them. Trip turned, and Malcolm straightened a little at the sight of T'Pol and Shran, cursing their untimely arrival.

"Lieutenant," T'Pol greeted him softly, eyeing his wounded arm. "How are you feeling?"

"I've been better," Malcolm replied, forcing a small smile on his lips. "But it's mostly accumulated tiredness. This," – he darted a glance at his bandaged arm – "is nothing serious; or at least doesn't look like it is," he amended, remembering he actually didn't know.

"Only a flesh wound," Shran thundered, with a dismissive wave of a hand.

It was the staunch attitude of a soldier; one that Malcolm knew well and didn't mind.

"The Admiral can thank your quick reflexes," the Andorian added with more than a hint of respect.

Malcolm bit his tongue. It wouldn't be proper to erupt in a string of foul words in front of a commanding officer. He took comfort, though, in Trip's supportive glance. What the man thought of Blake showed all over his face.

"Our Doctor told me something you need to know, Lieutenant," Shran went on after a beat, and his sudden change in tone, to one of uncharacteristic caution, drew him the immediate attention of everyone. The Andorian squared his shoulders, looking ill at ease. "Our CMO is… somewhat telepathic," he finally admitted. "A gift that has been in his family for generations and which he uses strictly for professional reasons," he hurried to add, wanting to sound reassuring.

Well, he didn't. Using telepathy without a patient's consent was a questionable practice, as far as Malcolm was concerned. His muscles clenched, sending the first jolt of pain up his injured arm.

"We shall leave you, then," T'Pol said, darting Trip a quick glance.

Catching the gist of it, the Engineer blurted out, "Yeah; we'll come back later."

"I think you'd better hear this too," Shran stopped them, though his gaze had remained fixed on Malcolm, who as a reflex had let his eyes go cold and unreadable, bringing up his famous shields.

There was a second of silence before T'Pol reacted. "Lieutenant?" she enquired, raising her eyebrows.

Malcolm wavered for a moment. He was a very private person, and the thought that he'd have to reveal something he'd really rather keep to himself was not a welcome one. But in the end he agreed with a slow nod. Shran was no fool, and if he said Trip and T'Pol should hear this too, he had to believe him.

"The Doctor observed something strange," Shran said intriguingly. "There seem to be instances when your brain reacts to stimula that... well, that aren't there. He used his telepathy to learn more, and has sensed that you are quite troubled, especially at those particular times." Narrowing his gaze, he said rather pointedly, "It's as if you were trying to communicate with someone; or someone with you."

Malcolm's eyes flew to Trip. If this wasn't confirmation of what he had just been telling him...

No; Shran was no fool. He watched the silent exchange and fired the question that must have been on his lips from the beginning.

"What happened to Captain Archer?"

* * *

"The Planet of Farewells," Shran said, nodding darkly, at the end of Trip's story. "I saw that Enterprise's course had come close to it." He eyed T'Pol. "Don't Vulcans know about it?"

"No," the Science Officer replied, with a fleeting frown.

"Every Andorian knows about the Planet of Farewells," Shran snorted, without sarcasm. "Every Andorian ship knows to keep away from it."

"What do you mean?" Malcolm asked tautly. The place didn't have a very hopeful name. With Trip's help he pushed to a sitting position, letting his feet dangle off the side of the bed.

The blue alien regarded him and shrugged. "People have been disappearing on it for centuries." he explained. "I'm sorry for Captain Archer. The man was okay, for a Pinkskin."

"Captain Archer is alive," Malcolm said firmly. "And I will find him."

A stunned silence ensued. Malcolm sought support on Trip's face. He found it, but swimming in pain and doubt.

"Why are you saying that, Lieutenant?" T'Pol enquired, looking troubled – as Vulcan trouble went.

Malcolm licked his lips. How to explain a deep-rooted feeling to a logical mind?

"Because I know," he croaked out. It was the stupidest thing he could have said, a child's reply; yet it was the one that came closest to the truth.

T'Pol lifted her eyebrows and considered the words. "And you think you can find him?" she asked, unexpectedly going with the assumption that he indeed could.

"I…" Malcolm didn't really know. "I keep seeing him," he replied, eluding a real answer to T'Pol's question. "And I know he's been trying to communicate with me. The Andorian Doctor just confirmed it." Engaging T'Pol with an intense glance, he added, "Whatever we do, we must do it fast. The Captain doesn't have much time."

T'Pol blinked. Then she turned to Shran. "There is a strange artefact on that planet. What do you know about it?"

Shran shrugged again. "Nothing much. No one has completely deciphered the message it sends out. Whoever goes beyond that obelisk, though, vanishes in a blinding explosion of energy."

"That's what triggered that displacement field," Malcolm muttered thoughtfully. He could see the blips of the recording with his mind's eyes. "When I warned the Captain to get away from it, he took a step beyond the artefact."

T'Pol crossed her arms over her chest. "You said that no one has _completely_ deciphered the message," she said, leaving the rest of the question to the imagination of the Andorian.

"Some of it is thought to be a warning not to trespass," Shran said. "And some of it…"

He looked reluctant to speak.

"What?" Malcolm pressed.

"It's not clear," Shran said gruffly. "Something about a test."

"What test?" Trip butted in, suddenly appearing eager.

"Who the hell knows? That language has been dead for millennia."

Trip reached to T'Pol's arm, in a gesture of total commitment. "We've got to go back," he urged. "We've got to do something!"

"Don't fool yourselves," Shran said gloomily. "No one has ever returned from the Planet of Farewells; at least that I know."

"Captain Archer will," Malcolm insisted.

Why he was feeling so certain about it, he didn't know. But all of a sudden he knew that a real chance was there; and he wouldn't let it slip.

* * *

"It's fascinating," Phlox muttered, holding his chin, as he examined Malcolm's on-going EEG. "Indeed, that Andorian Doctor is right."

His intelligent blue gaze tracked to the face of his sleeping patient. Malcolm's eyes were closed but moving; his breathing was irregular.

"This is no normal REM stage of sleep. Truly fascinating," the Denobulan repeated.

After the away party had returned onto Enterprise, Phlox had taken Malcolm aside and told him in clear terms that he'd give him something to knock him off his feet for at least eight hours; plus that he expected the Lieutenant to remain in sickbay, where he could keep an eye on him during that time, and run some tests. After all, he had promised.

"I can't believe we might still get the Capt'n back," Trip breathed out, following the Doctor's movements. "Just a couple of hours ago I was still mournin' him as dead."

"Hmm," Phlox muttered. "Don't raise your hopes too high, Commander," he warned. "You might end up hurt quite badly."

Trip winced. "Come on, Doc. We've got to believe it's possible."

"All I'm saying is..." Phlox narrowed his eyes, looking for the right expression. "Ah, yes – _keep your feet on the ground_."

Trip gave him a meaningful look as he jerked his head in Malcolm's direction. "We aren't exactly dealin' with rational things, here."

The Denobulan looked at his patient pensively. "I suppose you're right," he convened. "But… Well, you know what I mean, Commander."

"Yeah."

Trip was sitting astride a chair the wrong way around, with his chin resting on his arms, which were folded on top of the backrest. Despite his relaxed position, he felt a general tension that wasn't helping his mood.

He wasn't the only one, apparently: Malcolm was getting agitated.

"Is he okay?" Trip enquired, lifting his head.

Phlox's mouth curved fleetingly down. "Slight increase in heart-rate and respiration, but nothing worrisome. The alarms will go off if they go up to dangerous levels."

In the silence that followed Malcolm mumbled a few broken words, while some creature in Phlox's menagerie went wild, giving a loud screech.

The Doctor glanced at the clock. "Feeding time was over one hour ago. I suppose they're right. Excuse me, Commander." With that and a last glance at Reed, he turned and left to tend to his living remedies.

Trip sighed. Maybe it was time he went to his quarters and got some rest too.

"Hope you're gettin' the Capt'n to tell you how to find him," he murmured, squeezing Malcolm's arm slightly. As he got up to leave, Hoshi came through the doors.

There went someone else who looked in need of a few hours of uninterrupted sleep. As she approached, Trip had time to notice her far-from-pristine looks and stiff bearing; both of which were quite unlike their lovely Communication Officer.

"Commander," she greeted flatly, eyes darting worryingly to the man on the biobed.

Now that he looked at him through Hoshi's eyes, Trip had to admit that Malcolm was not a very reassuring sight: a large – by now yellow – bruise on his forehead; a new, noticeable bandage on his arm; muttering unintelligible things and tossing about restlessly.

"He's fine, Hoshi," he said; but the words did nothing to wipe the concern off her face.

"Yeah, I can see that," she commented under her breath. Standing straighter, she turned to Trip. "T'Pol has brought me up to date," she added warily. "I'm crossing my fingers we get to the Captain in time."

Though the situation was hardly conductive to a light mood, Trip found himself smiling inwardly. Hoshi didn't seem to have any trouble with the idea that Archer was still alive; that a man who had vanished into thin air was trying to communicate with them, haunting someone's mind. For sure it had taken _him_ a longer time to get used to it.

"We're doin' all we can," he said. "Pushin' the engine to the limit."

Hoshi nodded, eyes still drawn to Malcolm, who seemed to be easing again into a slightly more relaxed sleep.

"The Subcommander also told me about the supposed message sent by that artefact," she said. "And Commander Shran was kind enough to pass me whatever knowledge Andorians have managed to gather, on that language." She smirked unhappily. "It's ridiculously little, in fact; and if on one hand it's good to know I'm not a complete dolt, on the other I was hoping to get a bit more help." With a frustrated sigh, she ranted, "That signal is driving me insane."

"No luck?" Trip enquired.

Hoshi shook her head dejectedly. "All I _might_ have understood is that it speaks about a test of _faith_." She smirked. "Or perhaps _courage_. I'm not sure."

"Well, Malcolm has both, so I figure we'll be okay," Trip said, with an encouraging smile. That finally made her lips curve up too, which was good to see. "Come on." With a gentle arm on her shoulders, he herded her out of Sickbay. "I'm ordering us to sleep."

"By the way," Hoshi said as they walked down the corridor. "T'Pol said a Vulcan ship is coming to pick up the Ambassador."

"When?" Trip darted a frowning side glance. "We don't need to waste any more time, dammit."

"T'Pol is making sure we won't. She informed the High Command that once the vessel has caught up with Enterprise – in exactly thirty-four hours and twelve minutes – we'll go to impulse for no longer that the time necessary to transport V'Sir out."

"That's my girl," Trip commented, blushing a second later when he realised what he had said.

A full smile lit Hoshi's face. "And does the Subcommander know?" she quipped naughtily.

* * *

"This is a nonsensical waste of time. I expect you immediately to set a new course to Earth."

The voice was more nasal; but the dark eyes held the same self-assurance and fire which T'Pol had got used to seeing in Blake's gaze. She latched her hands behind her back, wondering how to approach this man and his rightful objection; the truth being that she herself had qualms about the appropriateness of returning to that planet. True, there was the Andorian Doctor and his telepathy; but it was hardly scientific evidence that Lieutenant Reed's conviction that Captain Archer was still alive was well-founded.

She decided to focus on Blake's choice of verb: _expect_. Not order.

"Admiral." She raised her eyebrows for effect. "Admiral Forrest, as you know, has placed me in command of the ship. As Acting Captain, I have decided to follow Lieutenant Reed's… instinct."

Blake made to snort and a disturbing sound came out instead. He brought a quick hand to his injury as his face flushed in the effort to contain the pain he had obviously inflicted himself.

"Lieutenant Reed!" he spat out as soon as he could. "Isn't it obvious that the man is guilt-ridden? I am going to recommend that he gets a full psychological assessment, as soon as we get to Earth. You should take him off duty, instead of following his insane hunches."

T'Pol blinked. Indeed there was that risk. Her logical mind tended to side with Blake, distasteful as the man was. But she felt an obligation to the crew not to leave anything untried in order to get Captain Archer back. If there was a possibility that the Lieutenant was right, she felt she had a duty to pursue it.

A thought suddenly struck her. It was fascinating, in that it gave her a completely different perspective to the issue, restoring the self-assurance she needed.

"Vulcans, Admiral, do not follow hunches but logic," she said. "The logical course of action, in these circumstances, is to do whatever is necessary to prove whether the Lieutenant is right or wrong. If we do not go back to the planet, we will never achieve that."

Blake's gaze flashed. "If, as I think, this turns into a fiasco, I will make it clear in my report that I objected to this mission," he said darkly. "You are risking your career to go on a wild goose chase."

T'Pol tilted her head in silent acceptance.

With a 'Good day, Subcommander,' Blake strode out of the ready room.

Heaving a deep sigh, T'Pol lowered herself into Archer's chair. Loyalty to this crew might lead her to undesirable consequences, but she was willing to take that risk. Lieutenant Reed appeared very convinced… and in space odd things were known to occur.

TBC

Please tell me what you think of it, I'm looking forward to your comments.


	13. Chapter 13

Thank you to my readers and reviewers. Do you think it's time to get Archer back? :-) Hmmm...

§ 13 §

The planet was there, outside his porthole. A small reddish dot getting bigger.

Malcolm pressed his forehead on his raised arm, leaning against the porthole, and watched as Enterprise made her approach. Soon his comm. link would beep and Trip's voice, or perhaps T'Pol's, would summon him to the launch-bay.

He had seen Archer again, during his forced sleep, in Sickbay; and then again in the following hours, but he still had no clue as to what the man wanted to tell him; or if they could save him. Even the notion that he was still alive, if truth be told, was beginning to feel like nothing more than a wild fancy, Andorian Doctor notwithstanding. For all he knew the Captain was haunting him as punishment for failing to protect him.

The truth was that his self-assurance was beginning to waver, and the weight of the crew's expectation to feel like too heavy a burden. They believed they were getting their Captain back; but short of a miracle he was going to let them down. His bones no longer ached; his arm, thanks to Vulcan medicine and Phlox's creatures, had virtually healed; he was finally well-rested; but once he set foot again on the dusty surface of that planet, he had no idea what he was going to do.

Why didn't Archer open his mouth and talk? One bloody word, one little hint – that's all he asked! Always only those green eyes, stabbing him, drawing him in. A small little hint could save him feeling like a visionary. All right, technically he was. But it could have saved him having to convince T'Pol that he wasn't a guilt-ridden, delusional madman. He had been so confident then… Confident, no matter how illogical, that an answer to this mystery, sooner or later, would be offered to them.

He wished he still believed it. And in any case it better be sooner rather than later.

One thing he was relieved about, was that after the nebula incident Blake seemed to have lost his desire to play Captain of the Enterprise. More likely he had been told to relinquish command. Rumour had it the man had had a long conversation with Forrest. What was certain was that T'Pol had full decisional powers once again.

The buzz of his door almost startled him.

"Come," he said, turning.

The door opened to reveal an unexpected visitor.

"Ensign," Malcolm greeted. Hoshi darted him a shy look and cleared her throat.

"I'm sorry I'm disturbing you in your quarters, Lieutenant."

She kept standing well outside, fingers locked together in unease.

"I wanted to speak to you before you left. In private," she added tersely.

Malcolm looked at her hesitantly for a few moments before realising he was likely appearing rude. He snapped out of it and mumbled, "You're welcome to come in." He had sounded rather self-conscious, but he wasn't comfortable being alone with a woman, a junior officer, inside his quarters.

Looking no less hesitant, Hoshi nodded and crossed the threshold, stopping just inside.

Now that he took a good look at her, Malcolm could see on her face the signs left by the hours of extra work. He thought he knew, actually, why she was here.

"I promised you I would break that message," Hoshi said tautly, looking like she had rehearsed the words before. "And I didn't. I wanted to tell you how sorry I am."

Right. Malcolm let out a soft, mirthless huff. "You heard Shran, Hoshi. Andorians have been studying that language for ages, and yet they haven't been able to understand much of that message. You shouldn't feel bad."

"Yes, but they don't have anyone missing; or anyone going down to the planet again," Hoshi said in frustration. "It was important for us to know what that message is saying. Understanding alien languages is my job, and I should've been able to---"

"Hoshi," Malcolm interrupted her with gentle firmness. "I know."

Yes. He did know how it felt failing in a job.

"But don't worry, I'll find a way to bring the Captain safely back."

The moment the words were out of his mouth, Malcolm regretted them. He had no right to give her false hope. But even as he thought that, a tiny core of resolution was again forming in his chest. He held on to it for dear life, willing it to grow. He needed it right now.

"T'Pol to Lieutenant Reed."

Malcolm turned to the comm. link. With a few quick steps he was at his desk.

"Reed here."

"The Doctor and Commander Tucker will be joining you in the launch-bay in ten minutes."

"Understood."

"Lieutenant..."

There was a small pause. Malcolm waited.

"We do not know what to expect on that planet," the voice finally came back, not quite as Vulcan as usual. "Do exercise caution."

The link was cut and Malcolm drew in a deep breath. "Somehow I don't think I will be able to," he muttered under his breath.

It hadn't been the right thing to say. Hoshi bit her lip, worry marring her features.

"If it's a test of faith, or courage," Malcolm said, with a mitigating shrug, "I'm afraid there won't be much room for caution."

* * *

Malcolm watched Trip push the hatch of Shuttlepod One open and slowly step off it, onto the red dust. A wave of heat invested them, making him wince. He had forgotten just how hellish this place was.

A moment later he had got off the pod behind the Engineer; and though Trip didn't need to look back to know that it was him, he did anyway in what Malcolm recognised as a gesture of encouragement. He was grateful; he appreciated what Trip was trying to do – make him feel that he wasn't alone in this – though in truth he didn't know what anyone could do to help him, when he didn't know how to help himself.

Their eyes met for a second; then, while Phlox remained in the pod, ready to join them if need be, the two of them began to walk slowly towards that cursed obelisk. They had landed the pod as close as safely possible to it: the artefact stood at some hundred-and-fifty metres straight ahead.

"Any plan?" Trip said softly after about two thirds of that distance had been covered.

It was a hell of a question; but Malcolm had expected it, sooner or later; indeed, he had expected it sooner. He licked his lips, which in this heat had got even drier than his tension would have warranted, looking for something intelligent – or at least not completely stupid – to reply.

"To have---"

_Faith and courage_, he was going to say. Archer cut him off; indeed, the small smile on Archer's face cut him off, for _that_ was something new. It wasn't enough to contrast the man's paleness or his hollow cheeks, yet a stunning sight it was. The Captain's eyes were weary, but a hint of the old light appeared in them, and it sent a shiver down Malcolm's spine.

"Hey..."

Malcolm could hear Trip's worried voice beside him, but didn't want to 'lose' his vision. Surely this time the Captain would bloody well tell him what to do! But no. He just kept looking at him, that deep gaze summoning him... _summoning him_...

Malcolm turned abruptly to Trip. "I've got to go, Trip," he said with quiet assurance.

"Go? Where?" the Engineer enquired warily.

"To wherever the Captain is, past that obelisk."

Trip swallowed. "Malcolm," he warned, "I don't think that's a particularly good idea."

For the first time since he had woken up in Sickbay with a concussion, Malcolm didn't feel lost, or even wavering; he had a task. It was more like a bet, perhaps; but worth the risk.

"_That's_ the test of faith and courage," he said, locking eyes with Trip.

"That sounds more like guilt and madness to me," Trip countered tautly.

"I believe that's what the Captain wants me to do," Malcolm insisted. He bit his lip. "I _know_ it is."

Trip opened his arms in a critical gesture. "Based on what? We cannot be sure that what you're seein'..." He trailed and shook his head. His voice was suddenly more formal as he continued, "You saw what happens to those who step past that obelisk, Lieutenant. I don't want to lose another officer."

His blue eyes added, _another_ _friend_.

In the silence that followed Malcolm watched as conflict dawned on Trip's face. The man was obviously torn between the need to balance heart and reason; for the former undoubtedly wanted him to risk an 'okay, let's do this and see if it works', while the latter reminded him of his responsibility towards the ship and any member of the crew – including what surely must sound like a delusional Security Officer.

"I'm telling you," Malcolm said, talking to the friend. "That's what I'm here for."

They held each other's gaze for another silent moment. Then Trip shook his head again.

"You won't do that, Lieutenant. I order you not to."

Malcolm closed his eyes, the better to gather his thoughts, and Archer was still there, he too silently ordering him.

_Sorry, Trip; you're outranked_.

Blinking his eyes open, Malcolm shifted them back to the obelisk, now standing no more than fifty metres away, gauging the distance; then he turned to his friend. He was going to do something he didn't like, and wanted Trip to read in his gaze that he was sorry.

The punch was unexpected, so it did its job quite well without having to be too heavy. Trip tottered, stunned.

Malcolm took off at a run.

TBC

Please leave a comment, there is even a brand new "review button", don't you want to try if it works? ;-)


	14. Chapter 14

Here is another juicy chapter. Enjoy!

§ 14 §

Just as he was coming perilously close to the fatal threshold, to that artefact, Malcolm suddenly had a flashback of what had happened to him ten days before when Archer had passed the invisible line; how he – Malcolm – had been thrown by that displacement field and ended up in Sickbay with a concussion. Now, in the fraction of second that it took him to cross the boundary between known and unknown, he had the time to hope that Trip would be okay. That's all he needed, to risk a friend's life in order to try and save another one's. At least Trip was much further from the artefact than he himself had been.

A blinding light, however, erased that worry from the blackboard of his mind; and for what could have been mere seconds or even hours – for he lost any notion of time and space – Malcolm was weightless, bodiless; and blind. He wondered if that was what it felt like to die. Perhaps he was dead. Perhaps Trip had been right and he had done something stupid. Perhaps some evil alien force had conjured up those images in his brain, and the Captain was really beyond saving; then so, now, was he. Perhaps...

As abruptly as they had left him, his senses returned, and with them the knowledge that he had limbs again, and that they were out of control. He flailed about and staggered across the ground. With a bit of luck he regained his balance.

The environment around him – now that he was stable enough again to actually look at it – was completely different from the one he had left. No more red dust; no more rocks: he was surrounded by vegetation, and only the oxygen-poor air which made him pant for breath suggested that he was likely to be still on the same planet; indeed, if his out-of-breathness was anything to go by, mere seconds must have passed since his mad run past that obelisk.

T'Pol's voice echoed in his mind, and Malcolm slowly pivoted on his feet for a _cautious_ survey of the place. And there, on the ground, lying limply in the shade of a tree, was Captain Archer.

"Captain," he choked out, heart leaping in his chest. He had been right. Bloody hell, but he had been right!

Archer was laying on one side, curled up in foetal position, his face hidden from view. Malcolm knelt by him and reached with two fingers under the man's jaw. A heartbeat was there, steady if not strong. Gently, he put a hand on the Captain's shoulder and rolled him on his back. Archer came without resistance, without a sound. If Malcolm hadn't just felt for a pulse and found one, he might as well have believed him lifeless.

"Captain," he heard himself repeat; he wasn't quite sure if in an effort to rouse the man or in dismay.

Under the ten-day-long beard, Archer's face was ashen; he looked wasted, even more than in those visions. But a faint, very faint smile was on the man's lips. Malcolm might have missed it, had he not seen it on the Captain's face just moments before, from _the other side_.

And now? How was he supposed to bring them both back home? Malcolm bit his lip. Indeed, where _was_ home?

"I did my test of faith and courage," he said in frustration, looking about for some form of intelligence – surely this couldn't all be casual? "Isn't that enough?" he called out, more loudly. "Send us back!"

Silence, and that slightly plastic-looking vegetation, surrounded them. Not even a bird call could be heard.

Clenching his jaw, Malcolm reached for his arm pocket.

"Reed to Enterprise..." Static came back to him. "Reed to Tucker..."

Brilliant.

He should try to explore a bit – but in which direction? And what if something happened and he couldn't retrace his steps? Or the Captain disappeared again? He shouldn't leave the man behind.

Looking up at the sky, Malcolm tried to orient himself by the sun; provided it was the same sun and the same planet, of course. At least the vegetation wasn't particularly thick. Reaching for Archer's arm, he heaved him on his shoulder in a fireman's carry. The man was tall but felt less heavy than anticipated – courtesy of his forced diet, perhaps.

Malcolm turned to go and... Desert was suddenly before him, where none had been before.

No, not exactly desert: a stretch of bare, dusty land. Quite a few kilometres beyond it, far yet tantalisingly close, was a much rougher terrain, and the safety of a small dot of silver, reflecting the sun. He knew instinctively what it was: their Shuttlepod. He turned about: the vegetation was no longer there. More barren land opened up before his eyes. But he couldn't give a damn, as long as that silver reflection stayed put. He'd get them to it.

A smile crept over Malcolm's face.

"Don't worry, Captain. We're going home."

* * *

Under Malcolm's blow Trip had tottered and fallen to his knees. Hand on his battered jaw, he'd been looking numbly at the man's backside as he ran past that obelisk – trying to come to terms with what had just happened – when he'd been hit by the shockwave of that displacement field, which had thrust him backwards and sent him rolling across the ground. One of those big boulders had finally stopped his course, leaving him breathless.

When he had opened his eyes again, Malcolm had no longer been there.

Mere seconds later his communicator had chirped, and he had reached for it with a hand that had left a smear of blood on the sleeve of his uniform.

Enterprise's sensors had registered the event, and T'Pol had sounded uncharacteristically upset in learning what had happened.

"Ouch," Trip complained, refocusing on the present.

He was sitting on one of the pod's rear benches, and Phlox was cleaning and dressing all the scrapes he had collected on the exposed parts of his body, namely his hands and face.

"Be still, Commander, please," the Doctor said gently, dabbing, with practised movements, disinfectant on his forehead.

It burned, but that wasn't what made Trip fidgety.

"That no good son of a –" Trip cursed under his breath. "What the hell was he thinking, knocking me out and running right at that stupid thing? That stubborn… When I get my hands on him, he's not going to know his ass from his elbows."

The truth was he was worried sick. Blue Denobulan eyes gave him a sympathetic look that told him the Doctor knew where his anger came from, and shared his feelings.

"A most unusual reaction, for the Lieutenant, I must agree," Phlox said in a darker-than-usual tone.

It took the physician a good twenty minutes to clean him up. The scanner had showed that Trip had broken no bones, though he'd probably be sore for a few days. Finally the Doctor pronounced him free to go.

Yes, but where?

Trip heaved a pensive sigh and went to lean with one shoulder near the open hatch, arms crossed over his chest. He had no idea what to do.

His eyes went to the cursed cause of all their troubles; then strayed further. Was something...? Yes, something _was_ in the stretch of barren land between the obelisk and that distant vegetation. It was far away, and the heat in the air distorted the image, but his heart missed a beat.

"Son of a bitch, he made it," he breathed out, pushing off his support.

* * *

T'Pol had told him the exact distance between the artefact and the vegetation: twelve point three kilometres. Malcolm was somewhere in the middle. She was not able to tell exactly where, because as far as sensors were concerned the Lieutenant and Captain did not exist. As a result, using the transporter was not an option.

Trip grimaced. You could almost always be sure the transporter was out of the picture when you most needed it.

He had wanted to take the Shuttlepod out to the men; but T'Pol had stopped him, using the powerful weapon of her strict logic. Now that they were so close to getting the two officers back – she had reasoned – it was irrational to risk disappearing with an entire Shuttlepod. It was quite clear that the area beyond that artefact was dangerous terrain. Trip had had to admit that she was right.

So he'd been standing as close to the artefact as he dared, watching Malcolm's slow progress, unable to take his eyes off the staggering blue uniform. Every now and then the Lieutenant would stop and lower his burden to the ground, but Trip had no doubt that the stubborn man would not let them down. Three and a half hours later, he was some twenty metres away from safety.

"Come on, Malcolm, you're almost there," Trip egged him on.

Malcolm raised his head, and a smile cracked his mask of tiredness.

As soon as he crossed into the rocky ground, Trip and Phlox were over him, helping lower the Captain to the ground.

Phlox went immediately to work, scanning Archer's body.

With a trembling hand Malcolm accepted a canteen, and Trip had to steady him as he threw his head back and drank thirstily, stopping just to take in a few gulps of air.

Finally he passed the back of his hand over his mouth, his grey eyes growing rueful as they ran over the bruise on Trip's jaw, and his injuries.

"Trip… look," he blurted out, still a bit breathlessly. "I'm sorry…" He shook his head, sending a rivulet of perspiration running down his face, and dabbed it dry with a sleeve. "I am prepared to face any consequence you see fitting, Commander," he concluded tautly.

Trip narrowed his eyes. "I swore to myself that if I laid eyes on you again I'd make you pay for it, Lieutenant," he said dangerously.

"The Captain is dehydrated and malnourished," Phlox butted in. "But he suffered no internal or external injury."

Trip watched his own relief dawn on Malcolm's face. What the hell, he was too happy to stay mad. "But I guess for this time I'll let you off the hook," he relented, trying in vain to restrain a grin.

"We'd better get the Captain back to the Shuttlepod," Phlox urged. "The sooner we get him to sickbay the better."

"May I be exempted from giving you a hand?" Malcolm croaked out wearily.

* * *

It had been a completely illogical set of events, and that had her at a disadvantage. However, it couldn't be argued that Lieutenant Reed's reckless behaviour, entirely founded on another one of those alleged visions, had been successful. The evidence was here in front of her eyes, sleeping on a biobed.

Taking advantage of the fact that Phlox had moved off to input some data in his computer, T'Pol allowed her gaze to linger over the Captain. He had lost considerable weight. How could the man still be alive? Humans were not like Vulcans. They could not go for many days without food, and especially without water. Archer had been away from Enterprise for ten days, and… Her thoughts were interrupted by a high-pitched sound.

"Ahhh," Phlox said. "There are traces of alien substances in the Captain's blood. It suggests that he had _some_ nourishment, at least in the beginning. And obviously some fluids or he wouldn't still be alive."

T'Pol looked in the Denobulan's direction, but the Doctor remained bent over his screen.

Well, that was one answer. But many another mysteries remained.

Turning back to Archer, T'Pol let her eyes wander over his bearded jaw-line. A strange fluttering upset her stomach, and she wondered what food might have caused that. She couldn't remember eating anything out of the ordinary.

But back to her reasonings.

For example, why hadn't sensors picked up any biosigns in that barren land or in that oasis? Indeed she had suspected that their readings had not been reliable, but up until the moment the Lieutenant had walked back to the Shuttlepod with Archer, visible to Trip's eyes but invisible to their instruments, she had had no proof of it. It was undesirable to find out that one could not trust one's technology; eighty-three lives depended on it.

The thought that all the time Archer had been just a few kilometres away from from where he'd disappeared was suddenly enough to threaten breaking T'Pol's control. Heaving a steadying breath against an emotion the Humans would surely label "irritation", she closed her eyes and pictured a Vulcan desert, a simple exercise that allowed her to find her inner calm again.

"Hmm," Phlox mumbled thoughtfully. "The Captain's brain scan seems normal."

T'Pol cast another unreturned glance at the engrossed physician.

She should try and make a mental list of the facts at her disposal. First: it appeared that walking past the obelisk from the rocky ground into the barren land triggered an explosion of energy that could make people disappear, whereas walking past the artefact in the opposite direction caused nothing of the kind. Second: sensors, already impaired by the red dust, were in fact blind to biosigns in certain areas of the planet. Third: it seemed that somehow Archer had indeed communicated with Reed. Vulcans were slightly telepathic, and, for lack of a better explanation, she was inclined to think that was how it had been done.

"Doc?" Commander Tucker's voice suddenly called through the comm. link, from the decon chamber. "Sorry to bother you, but are we done, here?"

He sounded both loathe to disturb, and eager to leave his confinement.

Phlox straightened up abruptly, hitting his forehead with one hand. He hurried to press the link open. "Yes, yes, Commander. I apologise, I got distracted. Both you and the Lieutenant are free to go."

A moment later the two officers were coming through the Sickbay doors. T'Pol took in Tucker's bruised jaw and her eyebrows lifted of their own accord; but she chose not to comment. Lieutenant Reed's debatable methods, after all, had produced results.

Oblivious to that, the Commander immediately darted a look at their inert Commanding Officer. "How's the Capt'n?" he enquired.

The Doctor produced one of his famous smiles.

"Stable. I am restoring water and nourishment to his system."

Indeed IV tubes were snaking out of Archer's arm.

"I don't expect him to wake up before a few hours have passed," the Denobulan continued. Jovially, he went on to suggest, "Therefore you can return to your duties. I will let you know the moment he opens his eyes."

It was a subtle way of telling them that their presence was not needed. T'Pol acknowledged the message with a gentle tip of the head, and led the party out of the infirmary.

"Lieutenant, I am… interested in hearing your report," she said, as they walked down the corridor. She debated for a second whether to allow Reed the time to take a shower – the Officer did look in need of a change of uniform; and her numbing agent was only partially effective at counteracting the odour of a person who had perspired heavily – but in the end her _interest_ was too strong. "If you would follow me to the ready room," she ordered.

Reed nodded dutifully; though she could tell that he had indeed been looking forward to a stop in his quarters.

"Did you order Travis to break orbit?" Tucker enquired.

"Not yet."

The Engineer frowned. "I thought you'd want to put some distance between us and that thing."

"I have asked Ensign Sato to prepare a warning in all known languages. As soon as the buoy is launched, we shall leave."

"Andorians could have thought of that," Lieutenant Reed commented, with a sarcastic huff. "It would have saved us a lot of trouble."

"Indeed," T'Pol agreed. "However, in my experience Andorians do not take the fate of other people very much to heart."

The three of them walked in silence to the turbo lift.

"Well, I think I'm gonna pop into Engineerin'," the Commander said. "See if everything is runnin' smooth down there. See ya later."

T'Pol watched him walk away; then preceded Reed into the turbo lift.

* * *

"Lieutenant Reed."

After speaking with T'Pol, Malcolm was dying to drown under a shower; so when he heard the voice calling he swore a silent blue streak. All the more so because the person who was going to delay his longed-for ablutions was someone he truly disliked.

He stopped and paused for a moment, trying to find the calm he needed to face this man; then slowly turned.

Blake's nose was still taped. Malcolm hadn't seen the Admiral since that silent Shuttlepod trip back to Enterprise, but frankly speaking he hadn't missed him one bit. In fact he'd rather hoped he'd manage to avoid the man till the blessed day when they could drop him off somewhere; preferably on an uninhabited planet; or one where the wildlife had tough enough stomachs to digest even him.

"I'd like to have a word with you," Blake said, bridging the gap between them.

As usual, his were the terse ways of someone who gave orders and expected them to be obeyed. Malcolm felt like telling him that now was not a good time; but unfortunately an Admiral was still a superior officer. Hell, wasn't it clear enough that 'a word with _him'_ wasn't what he needed just now? He was dishevelled and he knew he smelled awful. He had already been obliged to go through the discomfort of standing in close quarters with T'Pol and her sensitive nose; he didn't fancy a repeat of that experience with someone else – though, come to think of it, Blake's sense of smell probably wasn't very sharp at the moment.

Malcolm stiffened. "Very well," he said coldly, tilting is head in compliance.

Blake looked around, as if suggesting that the middle of a corridor wasn't the best place for a conversation, but Malcolm ignored him. The shorter this ended up being, the better. He wished he could cross his arms over his chest, instead of having to stand virtually at attention; it was a show of respect this man did not deserve.

"I suppose I owe you a thank you," Blake said without grace. "For that blow you deflected."

There was no real feeling in the words; it sounded like a mere obligation. Something Blake had to do to clear his conscience, so he could return to treating him like dirt.

Malcolm felt a surge of anger; actually, it was more like loathing. But he wasn't going to give this bastard the satisfaction of seeing him lose control.

"You don't _owe_ me anything, Admiral," he said, grey eyes steely. "Especially a thank you. I simply carried out my duty, to the best of my ability." With a sharp nod, he turned to go.

"I haven't dismissed you yet, Lieutenant," Blake said imperiously.

Malcolm pivoted on his feet, jaw clenched. This man had obviously decided to poke him until he ended up reacting and doing something stupid.

"Perhaps you want to add that you're sorry for insinuating that I am an inadequate Security Officer and a coward, Admiral. Because if you ever did owe me anything, it would be an apology."

_Right. Something bloody, sickeningly, utterly stupid. _

At least he hadn't shouted, but spoken, rather, with icy impassiveness.

A couple of crewmen hurried past them, looking eager to disappear around the next bend; and Malcolm used the time to straighten his stance even more and prepare for a well-deserved dressing-down. He stood at proper attention now, fixing his gaze to a nondescript spot on the bulkhead; but refused to humiliate himself by uttering the formal 'that was out of line' apology.

Seconds ticked by. Blake undoubtedly knew how to make someone nervous, damn him.

"I never could stand cowardice."

Malcolm blinked. The tone was not what he had expected. He dared a look at the towering man.

Blake nodded sharply. "Apparently, I was too fast in judging you, Lieutenant. I do apologise."

Sharp and direct. Military fashion. Malcolm blinked again, unsure of what to say. "Apology accepted," he finally said, his voice deep. He couldn't bring himself to say more – as far as he was concerned the man was still an idiot; and returned his gaze straight ahead.

"Dismissed," Blake said, after a pause.

Malcolm nodded, and turned. As he hurried off towards his shower, he hoped it would wash away more than sweat and red dust.

TBC

Was I too kind on Blake?... Looking forward to your comments!


	15. Chapter 15

Here is the last chapter. A big thank you to my readers and reviewers during these past few weeks.

The poll to vote for 4 new Special Months is now officially closed. You can view the results on my page.

§ 15 §

It happened on the following day, early in the morning, as he was running a diagnostic on the torpedo launchers. One moment Malcolm was looking at numbers and report messages scrolling on his screen, the next Archer was there. His eyes were no longer dull; the veil had been lifted from them. Malcolm's jaw dropped open: he had hoped to be through seeing the Captain that way.

"Simulations show that the port launcher is still fractionally slower than the other two when---"

The cut-off sentence prompted Malcolm to turn. Another set of green eyes was staring right back at him; these, though, were capped by a frown.

He cleared his throat, feigning normalcy. "I need to leave the Armoury for a while, Bernhard," he told his Second. "Would you run a simulation on the port launcher? I believe it's still a fraction slow to come online."

"…Aye, Sir."

It hadn't been the sharp reply which Müller had him used to, but Malcolm had no inclination to dwell on the fact. Running down the steps to the main floor of the Armoury, though, he felt his SIC's eyes on his back, and he was quite certain they remained on him all the way to the door.

* * *

Malcolm entered Sickbay not knowing what to expect. On his way there, he had wondered with some trepidation whether Archer might be awake; but had dismissed the idea. It seemed more logical that the man _wasn't_ conscious, or he would have summoned him through a regular comm. link. At least he hoped so – the last part, that was. He didn't fancy having the Captain, via some strange phenomenon, suddenly popping into his mind for any reason at all, even – say – to invite him for breakfast. He shuddered. It might be enough to make him regret bringing the man back.

Phlox, who was talking to a rather sickly-looking Ensign from the Science department, cut himself off to acknowledge Malcolm's arrival. "Lieutenant," he greeted, discreetly herding the crew-woman into a more private part of Sickbay. "I'll be with you in a moment."

Malcolm eyed the privacy curtain around Archer's bed. "I'm fine, Doctor. I'd like to visit the Captain," he said, without mincing words.

Gaze turning professional in spite of Malcolm's profession of health – or perhaps because of it –, Phlox paused for a second. "All right," he finally said, in a way that said that all kinds of wheels had been set in motion in his bright Denobulan brain.

"I won't stay long," Malcolm anticipated him. _Just a peek to see if I can get the man to stop using my brain for his strolling grounds. _

Taking care to avoid that awful screech of metal on metal, he let himself inside the enclosure. Archer looked moderately better than when Malcolm had last seen him, on their way back in the Shuttlepod. More relaxed, if nothing else. But the man was clearly still unconscious.

So here he was. Indeed. And what exactly was he supposed to do, now?

_Captain_ – he playfully told him in his mind – _I'd be grateful if you refrained from messing with my brain, Sir_. _It's already messed up enough. _

Hardly had the thought formed, that Archer's mouth curved into a smile, which very nearly sent Malcolm jumping out of his skin. This was much more frightening than seeing the man's eyes where a torpedo launcher's diagnostic should have been.

And then those very eyes cracked open.

Frozen in place, Malcolm held his breath; the weirdness of it all making him quite uneasy.

Seconds later Phlox was there.

"Kindly move aside, Lieutenant," the Doctor said as, with practised eyes, he checked readings and assessed his patient.

Malcolm didn't need to be told twice. He took a few awkward steps back and watched from a careful distance, still a bit shocked by what had happened.

"Welcome back, Captain." Phlox's tone was cheerful but kept comfortably low, his bedside manners, as always, irreprehensible. "How are you feeling? Here, let me disconnect this IV line."

"Doc… nice to see you," Malcolm heard Archer croak, his voice hoarse with disuse. "Is everyone okay?"

Phlox chuckled. "Of course. You have the best crew in the fleet, after all, haven't you?"

"I do…"

They exchanged another few beats of conversation, which Malcolm didn't catch because he had walked as an automaton to the comm. link to page T'Pol. The sickly Science crew-woman had left – he vaguely registered, as he informed the Acting Captain that the Real Captain had come to.

Five minutes later she and Trip were walking through the doors. They silently acknowledged each other; then Malcolm followed them back to Archer's biobed, stopping a couple of steps behind his superior officers.

"T'Pol, Trip."

Archer already looked much better. The back of his biobed had been raised.

Pushing to a straighter position, the Captain let his eyes track to Malcolm. "Lieutenant," he added, with what Malcolm thought was a knowing smile.

"It is agreeable to have you back, Captain," T'Pol replied for them all, drawing the attention back to her.

Trip blew out a breath. "Yeah. You gave us a good scare."

Malcolm, quite impolitely, just stared back at the man.

"Believe me, I gave _myself_ a good scare," Archer said with a huff.

T'Pol latched her hands behind her back. "When you are feeling better, I will be interested in learning what happened to you," she said.

"Which," Trip piped in, "roughly translates into, 'I'm dyin' to find out what on earth happened to you after that explosion'."

Archer's merry eyes danced from one officer to the other as he let out a soft chuckle. "I can see no reason why you should wait," he said. "It was the strangest thing," he began.

"Ah, ah, Captain; we don't want you to get yourself tired."

Phlox's interruption was not welcome.

"Aw, Doc, come on," the Engineer begged. "Aren't you curious to know too?"

"My main concern is that the Captain not exert himself too soon," Phlox replied meaningfully.

Archer shot him a sly look. "You're the boss here, Doctor, but… I think I'll be okay for a few minutes."

The Denobulan sighed. "Very well," he relented. "But don't complain if you end up having to stay in Sickbay longer that you would have needed."

"I won't. Scout's honour."

Archer shifted to a more comfortable position, taking a moment to gather his thoughts; then began again.

"When Malcolm warned me to move away from that obelisk," he said, darting Malcolm a contrite glance, "I took a couple of steps and… There was a bright light and I was kind of… _flying_, weightless. A bit like being transported, except that I was conscious all the time. And then I… yeah, well, _landed_ in the middle of this place, with trees and greenery."

Malcolm knew exactly what Archer was talking about, of course.

"That, I believe, is where Lieutenant Reed found you," T'Pol said.

"It is," Archer said, causing T'Pol's eyebrows to go up.

Indeed – Malcolm mused. How could the Captain, who had been unconscious, know where he had been found and by whom? But Archer was already continuing, and Malcolm focused back on his voice.

"Not very long after I had arrived there, I experienced... Well, for lack of a better word I'll call them _hallucinations_."

"Hallucinations?" Trip repeated.

Archer's gaze once again darted to Malcolm, who met it uncomfortably; after a moment Trip's and T'Pol's followed suit.

"Oh, ya mean Malcolm," Trip exclaimed. "He had them about _you_."

Archer bit his lip. "Actually, no; not about Malcolm."

Malcolm blinked, unsure if he was to say something. But the Captain went on.

"I couldn't quite _see_ the person," he said, wincing. "And technically I couldn't even hear him, but I could... _sense_ his message."

"Hmm, what a fascinating experience," Phlox butted in, in his singsong voice.

"It would appear it was telepathy," T'Pol reasoned, always the one who needed to find an explanation.

"Him _who_?" Trip enquired.

"A dweller from that planet."

"Captain, the planet is… uninhabited," T'Pol said, but the almost imperceptible hesitance betrayed the fact that she wasn't too certain about it.

"Oh, no, it's not." Archer rubbed two fingers on his temples, which prompted Phlox to pass a medical scanner over him. "Don't ask me where they live, or what they look like," he went on, with a reassuring wave at his physician, "but that planet is definitely _not_ uninhabited."

"What did they tell you?" Trip wanted to know.

"They told me their species avoids contact with other civilisations. I had ignored the warning not to trespass into their territory, and my rightful punishment for that was to die in that limbo, unless..."

Suddenly Malcolm knew. "Unless someone believed you were still alive, and came to look for you past that obelisk," he said almost to himself, speaking for the first time.

Archer nodded. "Unless I was able to convince someone to have enough faith to believe me alive, and enough courage to come past that obelisk."

"The test of faith and courage," Trip wondered. He turned to Malcolm, who broke eye contact with Archer only long enough to acknowledge the warm blue eyes.

"Turns out those people hold faith and courage in the highest consideration," Archer said. "Enough to let trespassers be rescued only on condition that their rescuers prove loyal and brave."

Tilting his head, Trip gave a low whistle.

"Lieutenant Reed said he had visions of you," T'Pol said.

"I…" Archer frowned, and his gaze trailed to Malcolm once again. "I suppose I'll never know whether it was you who had the visions because you and I had shared that explosion of energy, or because you are my Security Officer; or even if I had any hand in choosing you; but suddenly I could hear some of your thoughts, Lieutenant, and I knew I could make contact; though I couldn't speak to you."

Malcolm licked his lips. "I could see your eyes, Sir," he breathed out. "But for a long time I thought it was my concussion, or…" He faltered.

Trip shot Malcolm a comforting glance. "You freaked the man out, Capt'n."

"I can imagine," Archer said with a huff.

Before Malcolm could comment, Phlox spoke.

"Captain," he said, one hand cradling his chin. "I found traces of alien substances in your blood. You obviously had nourishment and fluids, or you wouldn't be alive. Am I right?"

"There were fruits in that place, and some of them were filled with liquid; but they didn't much agree with human physiology. I tried some of them; but after a few days, I couldn't hold them in any more. I started getting weaker; the good thing was that, when my consciousness began to fade, contact, for some reason, became more easily established."

"I take it you couldn't just walk away from the place," Trip wondered.

Archer smirked. "Every time I went exploring, I found myself back in the same place. Besides, I knew that Enterprise was no longer in orbit, where would I go?"

A heavy silence met the words.

"Well, then," Phlox exclaimed after a moment, in that upbeat tone of his. "Now that we know what happened to the Captain, my patient needs to rest."

Archer gave a helpless shrug. "I guess you'll be Acting Captain for a little longer," he said to T'Pol.

"It is not a problem," she replied.

Trip smiled. "Don't worry, Capt'n. Enterprise is in good hands."

His blue eyes darted T'Pol a rueful glance, and Malcolm watched as something very close to surprise painted itself on her face. He was glad Trip was sort of asking forgiveness for doubting her. She too, in the end, had taken her test of faith and courage, proving loyal to the ship and courageous in standing up to V'Sir and Blake.

"I know," Archer said, settling against his pillow in contentment. "The best."

"Malcolm…" he added, as the three of them were turning to go. "Would you stay for a moment?"

"Captain," Phlox warned.

Archer lifted his eyebrows. "Please?"

Sighing, Phlox moved away.

"How are you feeling, Lieutenant?" Archer asked as soon as they were alone, eyes darting to the barely visible bruise on Malcolm's forehead.

Malcolm took a moment to answer. "It's been a rough ten days, Sir," he finally replied. "But I'm well enough."

"I must thank you," Archer said with feeling, after a beat. "Your loyalty has saved my life."

Another thank you echoed in Malcolm's mind, and the difference between the two was rather striking. He shook his head. "Captain," he croaked out awkwardly. "In the end I only did what…" He grimaced, realising how crazy this would sound – what a bloody idiot he was; Archer would know. "I only did what you _ordered_ me to do, Sir."

Archer's mouth curved into a faint smile. "Not quite. You had to _believe_. Which leads to the other thing; I suppose I must also apologise for… intruding in your mind. Once I knew I could, I'm afraid I tried as hard as possible."

Malcolm pursed his lips, averting his eyes. He crossed his arms over his chest. "That was quite disturbing, actually," he said carefully.

He dared to look back. Was the man aware that he had popped into his mind no longer than half an hour before? And talking about hearing his thoughts… How exactly did _that_ work?

"Believe me, I don't particularly enjoy using your brain as my _strolling grounds_," Archer said, knowingly. "And I don't want to _mess it up more than it already is_," he continued, with a teasing glance.

"Oh, damn," Malcolm blurted out, in a deep voice. This was more than he could stand, or hold in.

"But let me reassure you," the Captain hurried to add. "It's not as if I could access your mind as one does with a database. The thoughts I could 'hear' were all basically related to work, the ship's mission, and myself. Your private life has remained just that."

"_Were_?" Malcolm enquired, wincing. "Captain, you have just proven that you can still get into my head."

Archer grimaced too. "Alright, _are_," he amended. "But not for long; you'll be glad to know that my abilities are fading."

Malcolm blew out a breath. "I won't hide from you that it _is_ a relief, Sir. With all due respect, I'd like to be able to carry out a diagnostic without having you appear on my computer screen."

"Sorry. It's not something I can fully control. I'll be relieved too, believe me, when things are back to normal."

"Captain, I must insist that you rest now," Phlox said in his no-nonsense tone, approaching the bed.

"I'm all yours, Doctor," Archer complied. He hid a yawn behind a hand.

"Excellent."

"Have a good rest, Sir," Malcolm wished. "As the Commander said, Enterprise is in good hands."

"Thanks," Archer drawled out wearily.

And the ship _was_ in good hands – Malcolm mused, as he watched his CO's eyes droop closed. T'Pol had proven her loyalty; Trip was a brilliant mind and a faithful friend; Hoshi and Travis were devoted and reliable. Indeed there wasn't a single person aboard Enterprise who wasn't a fine man or woman. Well… with one exception, at least for the time being: that bloody idiot of an Admi---

"Malcolm?!" a surprised voice said. Archer's eyes cracked open again.

_Brilliant_.

"Captain---"

"Not that I don't agree with you," Archer interrupted, green gaze closing again. "The man's a jerk; but let's keep that between you and me."

The phrase had never sounded more appropriate. Malcolm felt a smile creep up his face. There seemed to be a positive side to sharing thoughts with his Captain.

"Lieutenant! Are you still here?"

Phlox was definitely losing his patience, and he was one person Malcolm had best keep as a friend.

"Sorry, Doctor," he quickly apologised. Then, just as quickly, he left Sickbay.

* * *

The Mess Hall was full; and noisy. But for once Malcolm didn't mind. It was the normal hustle and bustle of lunch time, and normality was a wonderful thing.

"Wait till Shran hears about this," Trip said with a chuckle, spreading his napkin over his legs. "Faith and Courage championship: Pinkskins one, Andorians zero."

Malcolm snorted. "I wonder what colour Andorians get when they blush. Purple?"

"I doubt _blush_ is in their vocabulary," Hoshi commented deadpan. "Let alone in the list of their physiological abilities."

Malcolm stopped with fork in mid-air at her abrupt tone. "What's the matter, Hoshi?" he enquired, becoming aware of her peeved expression.

Hoshi's mouth quirked irritably. "It's that message. I've never failed so miserably before."

"What d'ya mean, _failed_," Trip wondered, jerking his chin down and back. "You translated the two words that made all the difference."

"Trip is right," Malcolm agreed. "Without your cue, I probably wouldn't have risked a court-martial by knocking a superior officer unconscious to go to the rescue."

"You didn't knock me unconscious," Trip specified with narrowed eyes. "I was only stunned."

"I went easy on purpose."

"Oh. Are you expecting a thank you, Lieutenant?"

Malcolm shrugged. "Since I'm collecting them these days, you might as well, Commander," he said, letting playfulness dance in his gaze.

Hoshi's mouth finally curved up. "You guys are… are…"

"Wonderful?" Trip suggested.

"Insane?" Malcolm countered. He couldn't help seeing things from a more pessimistic point of view.

Hoshi's eyes tracked from one to the other. "Unique," she eventually blurted out.

Malcolm considered the word. "That doesn't tell us much," he teased. "Each of us is. At least I hope there aren't many other Commanders Tucker roaming around in the universe."

"Or Lieutenants Reed," Trip was quick to add.

Hoshi leaned over the table in a secretive way. Trip and Malcolm did the same.

"Or Admirals Blake," she said, keeping her voice low.

Malcolm groaned and Trip rolled his eyes.

"I see that you are in agreement about that," Hoshi said with a smile. Turning serious, she added, "Anyway, what I wanted to say is that you guys are---"

"Senior Staff please report to the Bridge," T'Pol's unreadable voice broke through the comm. link.

Exchanging a look, the three of them dropped their cutleries and got up. A few moments later they were in the turbo lift.

"Special," Hoshi suddenly said, breaking the silence. Her eyes shifted from Trip to Malcolm and back. "You guys are special."

Malcolm blinked and turned to Trip. Trip looked back at him.

The turbo lift slowed down and stopped. "Commander, Lieutenant: after you, Sirs," Hoshi said almost proudly, straightening her posture.

"Thank you, Ensign," Trip replied, with a warm smile.

Malcolm followed his friend out on the Bridge. But another friend was right behind him. More friends were in the situation room, and as they joined them he wondered what the universe would throw at them today.

After all, this was another normal day on the Starship Enterprise.

THE END

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